#garlic tutorial

[artificial-condition]

Growing Garlic 101

It's summertime and that means it's about time to order garlic! Garlic is one of the easiest vegetables I have ever grown, although it takes a while from planting until harvest. Most of that time is hands off, so garlic is something I would recommend to grow if you're new to planting and want something easy (or just want lots of yummy garlic)

What to know before starting

Before getting further, I just want to say that I am in hardiness zone 6b (near zone 7) in the US, so that is my growing experience (what is a/my hardiness zone?). To my knowledge and research, garlic can be grown in a wide variety of climates, including very hot and very cold ones. This post is going to be oriented around US geography and terminology because that's what i know

The first thing to know about garlic is that it is typically planted in the fall, but not harvested until the following summer. Why is it planted so early? Garlic goes through a process called vernalization, which means that it needs a cold period before in order to grow to its fullest potential. In garlic, vernalization is what causes the bulb to split into cloves (rather than just having one big chunk of garlic). The first year I grew garlic, I didn't know that it had to be planted so early so I planted in January. It did pretty good and I was happy with it! Some heads didn't have cloves and some did, so even if you get to it late you'll likely still have something yummy to eat by the end of it!

The next year I grew garlic, I planted it out towards the end of October and I had an amazing harvest! The bulbs were bigger and all had divided into cloves. All this to say, you'll have better garlic if you plant in the fall but if you forget or don't know and get to it late it'll be okay!

Step 1: Picking your garlic varieties

This is such a fun step!!! You can find all sorts of different varieties of seed garlic online, with different colors, tastes, and growing habits. My first year I started with seed garlic I found at lowes; the type I found was your generic grocery bought garlic, which for the most part is a softneck variety called California Early (or California Late).

Softneck vs. Hardneck

You should pick softneck or hardneck depending on the climate you are growing in. Softneck varieties do better in warmer climates while hardnecks are more cold hardy. In my zone 6b, I can grow both hardneck and softneck varieties because I am in the middle of the temperature range for hardiness zones. If you are in zones 1-5, hardneck varieties are recommended for your area while zones 8-12 softnecks grow better. If you are in the middle zones 6-7, you should be able to choose either variety and end up okay :)

Hardneck features

Hardneck garlic differs from softneck most obviously in that it will form a hard flower stem, often called a scape:

These are delicious and should be harvested before the flower opens, when they start to curl. They can be chopped up and used like other vegetables (they're also great in pesto I've heard). I roughly chopped mine this year and put them in a bag in my freezer so I can take them out and add as needed. They have a mild garlic flavor, more herby than the bulbs, and can be used in greater quantity without an overpowering garlic taste

Other differences in hardneck varieties is that they have larger (but fewer) cloves and the cloves peel easier.

Softneck features

Softnecks don't have the hard stalks and also keep good for much longer than hardnecks, so their stems and leaves are better for forming garlic braids:

Because of their superior ability to store well, softneck varieties are the type of garlic most commonly sold in grocery stores. There are much fewer varieties of softneck garlic than hardneck (only a couple dozen vs hundreds of varieties of softneck). There are more cloves in softneck garlics but the cloves are smaller and harder to peel.

Where to order seed garlic

Here are some good places I've found to order seed garlic:

Hudson Valley Seed Company

Johnny's Seeds

Urban Farmer (my favorite, I ordered here last year)

You can also just buy garlic from local farmers/hardware stores! They'll likely have varieties well suited to grow in your area.

Step 2: Planting

After you receive your garlic, keep it whole in the bulbs until time to plant. The general rule is to plant 6-8 weeks before your typical first frost date (where is that for me?), but I found that its okay to do it later than that, especially since climate change is messing with the dates. For reference, my average last frost date is October 11th but I didn't plant last year until October 22. Typically they are planted around September-November, the warmer your climate the later you plant.

Before planting, I recommend adding an inch or two of compost to the top of the soil. This will give them nutrients for the year ahead :)

If you are planting late or have pretty mild winters, one trick is to keep the garlic heads in the fridge (not freezer) for a month or two before planting. This will simulate vernalization and will help them to form cloves and bigger heads!

It is good to plant in a fairly sunny area. Mine has partial shade but they do great there!

When you are ready to plant, separate the bulbs into cloves. Try to keep as much as the papery skin on your cloves as possible as it helps to protect them in the ground, but don't beat yourself up about it. I plant mine roughly four inches apart, shoving them about two inches down with them upright (the hairy root end is the bottom and they taper to a point at the top):

After they're all planted, water pretty deep and mulch about an inch or two deep. This will help protect them from hard freezes in the upcoming winter. You can use whatever you have access to, I recommend things that will decompose so they add nutrients to the soil. I raked up fallen leaves from my yard last year and used those

Step 3: Wait

Now relax! The garlic won't be ready for a long time, so just let it do its thing. I don't really ever water mine because I get pretty consistent rainfall, but you can water periodically if you are in a dry climate. It is good to water before particularly hard freezes, it helps the bulbs have what they need to survive.

You might see the greens popping up if you have warm sprees in the late fall/winter. It is fine to ignore these, they will likely die back when it gets cold again but they will still come right back in the spring. You'll want to remove any heavy mulch in the spring when they start growing (my leaves had mostly decomposed so I didn't need to do this)

Step 4: Harvest time

I water mine occasionally as they are growing in the spring or summer, but for the most part I don't bother. I have fairly regular rain and garlic seems very resilient to water differences.

Your garlic will be ready sometime in May-August, depending on what varieties, when you planted, and your climate.

When it is getting close to harvest, it is natural for the leaves to start dying back a bit, especially with softneck varieties. You'll see the garlic scapes form on hardneck varieties, and will need to cut these off once they begin curling, before they flower:

For softneck garlic, harvest when about half of the leaves have yellowed and died off, starting with the bottom leaves. The tops may start to flop over when ready.

For hardneck, the appearance of scapes means they'll be ready in about 4-8 weeks. The leaves will die off as well, but not near as much as softneck varieties in my experience.

Do not water for a week before harvesting. You want your garlic to dry out some before harvesting :D

Since my garlic is in a raised bed, I have fairly loose soil. Therefore, I can just pull the neck of the garlic right above the ground to harvest my garlic. If you have more compacted soil, it would be best to dig around the clove some before you harvest so that it comes out whole and unbroken.

Congrats!!! Your garlic is ready!!

Step 5: Eating and preserving

At this point, your garlic is all out of the ground and ready to be eaten. If you have more garlic than you can eat within the next couple months, you'll need to preserve it. There's a lot of ways to preserve it, but I'll go over a couple I have done.

Idea 1: cloves in a vinegar

This one is primarily how I preserved my garlic last year and I'll be doing it again this year. It is very simple: just peel your garlic, place in clean jars, pour over hot boiling vinegar, seal, let cool, and store in the fridge! Make sure the cloves of garlic are completely submerged in the vinegar or you risk foodborne illnesses. The garlic has enzymes that prevent the cloves from absorbing the vinegar, and the vinegar prevents any bacteria from growing and causing the garlic to spoil. The cloves don't taste like vinegar and can be chopped and added to dishes as needed!

Idea 2: cure whole heads

This is best done with softneck garlic as they store better for longer than hardneck.

This is essentially letting them dry so they keep longer. After harvesting, keep the heads as is with dirt and leaves still attached (brush off any big dirt clumps but don't scrub them clean). Place the heads somewhere flat, warm, well ventilated, and shaded from too much direct sunlight (can get some indirect sunlight). This can be in a garage, on palattes, hanging somewhere, in a shed, whatever you have that seems best. I did mine on my front porch just laying on the concrete.

Leave them alone to dry for at least two weeks, then store as desired! You can trim the leaves and roots off and clean with a brush if desired, or leave the leaves and dirt and roots and store. I trimmed the roots off, left the leaves, braided them together, and hung in my kitchen:

(here is a video about braiding garlic) (note: it can only be done with softnecks)

Idea 3: make garlic confit

This is such a yummy way to use up garlic. Peel your cloves, add to a saucepan, cover in desired liquid oil, and cook on low until the cloves are soft and smushable. Store in the fridge after letting cool and eat within a week :)

Idea 5: Roasted garlic

Here is a recipe

And that's about it! Enjoy your garlic :D

@yourfriendfrogs

[whoa-where-did-the-pancakes-go]

I think I should be allowed to eat garlic bread at 10 pm. For fun.

[writhyv]

⋆｡°✩ a gift from japan ✦ nishimura riki

he's not getting boring is he? he's not being too different from what you were before right? even if you say things to reassure him, it'll just bug his mind over and over … maybe he needs some ideas to spice it up? hmmm … i mean googling about it shouldn't hurt …

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ pairing — nishimura riki x male!reader

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ tags — fluff, lil cracky, will be suggestive, implied male!reader, implied long time relationship with riki, childhood friends (?), something's definitely going to happen and I will be SEATED

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ warning + notes — UHHH just know that ni-ki did this to himself, this is his FAULT for being so fuckin cute AFAGFRGFHRGHHGHHH!!!! dissapears from the face of the earth

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ word count — 1.3k

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ looking for my main masterlist? — here's the legacy one!

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

You sighed, rolling your stiff shoulders as you pushed open the front door, toeing off your shoes with a tired groan. Work had been a beast—endless meetings, last-minute revisions, and a client who seemed allergic to the word "deadline." All you wanted was to collapse onto the couch with your boyfriend and forget the world existed for a few hours.

But the moment you stepped inside, the air shifted.

The usual clutter of Ni-ki’s dance gear and half-empty water bottles was gone. The living room was dim, lit only by the warm glow of candles—real ones, not the battery-operated ones you usually kept around because someone had nearly set the curtains on fire last time. The scent of something—was that garlic?—drifted from the kitchen, mingling with something floral. Roses?

Your eyebrows shot up.

"Riki?"

No answer.

A quick sweep of the apartment revealed the dining table—set with your good plates, the ones you only pulled out for special occasions. A single red rose lay across your napkin. The pasta in the center looked… charred at the edges, but the effort was unmistakable.

Your chest warmed. Anniversary. You’d completely forgotten.

A rustling sound came from the bedroom. And then, a thud.

Oh have you already figured it out.

"Riki?" you called again, voice laced with amusement. "If you’re hiding in there, I swear—"

The door creaked open.

And then—

Holy shit.

There he stood, bathed in the golden light of the bedside lamp, completely naked—save for the disaster of red ribbons haphazardly wrapped around his body.

As the door creaked, he turned towards you, face struck with disaster seeing you seeing him still not ready.

A stash of ribbon looped around his waist like a belt, others tangled around his biceps in a way that looked more accidental than artistic.

A single bow sat crookedly on his hip, barely clinging on. His face was flushed, his usually confident smirk wobbling into something painfully unsure.

"Shi- I mean ... Surprise?" He said, voice cracking.

You blinked. And then, you lost it.

A loud, unfiltered laugh burst out of you, doubling you over as you clutched your stomach. *"Oh my god—*what—what is happening right now?!"

Ni-ki’s expression flickered between mortification and defiance. "I—I researched this!" he insisted, gesturing wildly—which only made the ribbon around his wrist slip further. "It was supposed to be romantic!"

"Romantic?" you wheezed. "You look like a craft store exploded on you!"

"I panicked!" he whined, trying—and failing—to adjust the mess of fabric. *"The tutorial made it look easy, but then I couldn’t—why is this so complicated?!"

"Tuto- they have this on Youtube?!" You wheezed.

"Tumblr, okay? Tumblr!" Ni-ki whined, his art piece moving around as his frame did.

You wiped tears from your eyes, stepping closer. "Okay, okay—let me help." You gently tugged at a loose ribbon near his collarbone. "This one’s just… hanging here. Were you trying to tie it like a scarf?"

Ni-ki groaned, hiding his face in his hands. "I give up. This is the worst anniversary surprise ever."

You bit back another laugh, cupping his cheeks. *"No, no—it’s perfect."

He peeked, slowly, through his slender fingers. "...Really?"

"Really," you grinned. "I mean, yeah, it’s ridiculous—but that’s you. My ridiculous, over-the-top, adorable boyfriend who—" You paused, eyes trailing down. "—somehow thought ribbons were the key to seduction."

Ni-ki pouted. "It worked, though."

You snorted. "Did it?"

"You’re looking," he pointed out smugly.

"Hard not to when you’re basically a present with a bow on your—" You gestured vaguely. "—well, everything."

He laughed then, bright and unrestrained, the sound melting into the apartment's quiet. For a moment, the absurdity of it all faded—the ribbons, the burnt pasta, the fact that you’d forgotten today was special. None of it mattered.

Because he was here. Yours.

You brushed a thumb over his cheek, voice softening. "You didn’t have to do all this, you know."

Ni-ki leaned into your touch, his earlier bravado fading into something quieter. "I wanted to. You’ve been working so hard… I just—" He hesitated. "I didn’t want you to think that ..."

'That?" You looked at him, with his eyes reciprocating a yearning gaze.

"That I was ... getting boring."

Your heart clenched.

"Hey," you murmured, pressing your forehead to his. "You could never be boring. You’re the guy who came up to me first when I was a new kid and showed me around Shibuya even though we hadn't told our parents about it."

Ni-ki laughed. "The same day too—"

"The same day too!" You chuckled. "That was my first day, and I went with the popular kid on a trip downtown!"

Both of you laughed at the memory, Ni-ki beating your arms as his body couldn't contain his laughter.

"Also, who proposed to me with a pack of those golden Haribo gummies he so hardly earned after a week and cried when I said yes. Who still tries to make me carry him to bed even though he's taller than me now—"

"You can still do it!" he protested.

"You're past 6 foot!"

"And I'm light as a feather—"

You kissed him.

Slow, sweet, lingering—until the tension in his shoulders melted away, until your hands found his waist, pulling him a bit closer.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were warm, his smile small but real.

"I love you," you whispered. "Ribbons or no ribbons."

Ni-ki exhaled, resting his head against your shoulder. "...Even if the pasta’s burnt?"

"Even then."

A beat of silence. Then—

"...So," he drawled, fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip. "Since you do like the ribbons…"

You rolled your eyes. "Oh my god."

"Wanna unwrap your gift?" His voice dropped, lips brushing your ear. "I hear it’s one of a kind."

You groaned, half-exasperated, half-aroused. "You’re impossible."

Ni-ki grinned, all teeth. "But you love me."

And as the candles flickered, as the pasta sat forgotten, as his hands slid under your shirt with far too much confidence for someone literally tangled in ribbons—

You couldn’t argue.

"Yeah," you breathed, tugging him back toward the bed. "I really do."

Right there, you could feel his warmth once again, bathing your lips in such sweet harmony.

The kiss deepened, slow and syrupy, his mouth against yours. The ridiculousness of the ribbons faded into the background—now all you could focus on was the way his hands slid up your back, the way his breath hitched when you bit his lower lip.

You pulled back just enough to murmur against his mouth, "So. These ribbons."

Ni-ki grinned, all mischief. "What about them?"

"They're everywhere," you laughed, plucking at the one draped over his shoulder. "How did you even manage to find the time and prepare all this?"

He huffed, but his cheeks flushed darker. "I just had time, you know? Also, it's harder than it looks." His fingers twitched against your waist. "Maybe you should... help me out."

"Oh?" You arched a brow, dragging a fingertip along the ribbon circling his wrist. "You want me to fix this mess?"

Ni-ki’s breath stuttered. "I want you to take it all off."

Your stomach flipped.

Slowly, teasingly, you tugged at the loose end of the ribbon around his wrist. It unraveled with a whisper of silk, pooling at his feet. Your fingers trailed up his arm, following the path of another ribbon—this one looped haphazardly around his bicep. You tugged, and it slipped free, revealing the smooth, sun-kissed skin beneath.

Ni-ki watched you with half-lidded eyes, his chest rising and falling just a little faster now.

"Like what you see?" he murmured, voice rough.

You smirked. "I might."

Another ribbon, this one slung low around his waist, barely holding on. You tugged it free with a slow pull, letting your knuckles graze his hipbone. His breath caught.

"Tease," he accused, but he didn’t stop you.

You hummed, stepping closer, your chest nearly brushing his. "You wrapped yourself up like a present," you murmured, fingers skimming the last ribbon—the one pretending to cover him, tied in a loose bow at his hip. "What did you think was gonna happen?"

Ni-ki’s throat bobbed. "This," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Your fingers curled around the final ribbon.

"Happy anniversary," you whispered back—

And pulled.

 EN—D

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — okay i just had too THAT RECENT CLIP OF HIM RINGIN THE BELL AND PRESENTING HIMSELF?!?! HEAD TO TOE AS A GIFT?!?1 YES PLEASE?!?! so here is a fic based on that, you are SO welcome sahjfahfjas

my masterlist! | made by writhyv 💘

[peachylynnie]

garlic

word count: 1.4k

synopsis: in which sylus feeds you too much garlic.

contains: sylus x reader (doesn't have to be mc, gender neutral), an obscene amount of garlic (slight crack fic), mentions of cooking, eating, and love of food, suggestive at the end, and cussing.

a/n: i was rewatching wgm the other day and the male star did this to the female star. couldn't help but feel inspired to write this for sylus since he would totally tease us. do NOT copy or translate my work. sylus does NOT endorse plagiarism. reblogs and comments always appreciated :)

you love sylus' cooking. even before you started dating, you always thought his cooking was immaculate—so immaculate you can't help but wonder why he even had a private chef. rich people shenanigans, you like to conclude. you also wonder if rich people put a lot of garlic in their food. because there are a shit ton of garlic slices on the linguine pasta sylus just served you.

by no means are you a picky eater. heck, you love garlic. it's a blessing to humankind. garlic bread, fried rice, pesto, you name it. so many foods have garlic in them, and you enjoy all of them. but this? this was way too much.

sylus raises a brow as he sits next to you, wondering why you haven't picked up your fork yet. "something wrong, sweetie?"

"what's with the garlic, sylus?" you turn to face him, leaning back in the leather high chair.

he looks at your plate, then back at you. "is there something wrong with the garlic?" picking up his own fork, he goes to inspect your food. you stop him by holding his wrist.

"no," you shake your head, laughing a little. "it's just... this is a LOT of garlic." you nudge your head towards the incredibly noticeable pile of garlic slices. "did the tutorial really call for this much?"

sylus chuckles, returning to his own plate. meticulously, he twirls the pasta with his fork, leaving you to admire his sturdy forearms. not only do you love sylus' cooking, but you also love WHEN he cooks. why? because this absolute godsend, silver-haired, ruby-eyed, strong-nosed, supple-lipped, and deep-voiced of a man rolls up his sleeves when he cooks. his veins protrude and his muscles flex whenever he chops some vegetables with a knife. you don't pity the buttons that hold on for dear life to keep his sleeves together whenever he maneuvers a pan. resting an elbow on the kitchen island, you set your head on your hand to admire the current view.

you're taken aback when sylus holds up his fork to your mouth. normally, you would gush at such an action. the ruthless and relentless head of onychinus, offering YOU the first bite of HIS food. oh, you would happily accept, eager to taste absolute heaven in your mouth because sylus always makes great food. but, this time, you frown, noticing the mini TOWER of garlic slices on top of the noodles wrapped around his fork.

"i didn't take you for a picky eater, sweetie." sylus teases as he tilts his head. your jaw drops, flabbergasted by such an accusation. not that there's anything wrong with being a picky eater; it's just that sylus should know you by now. he's cooked for you plenty of times before. he's seen you eat plenty of times before. he should know by now you generally enjoy most food, and it takes a lot for you to even hesitate to pick up a utensil.

"i'm not picky," you cross your arms, a slight pout forming on your lips. "there's just too much garlic."

"there's no such thing as too much garlic," sylus quips. as if to further prove his point, he lifts the fork closer to your mouth. you begrudgingly accept, not without giving him a look, of course, because only you would accept a mouthful of garlic offered by sylus himself.

it's not necessarily bad. that's the first thought you have when you close your mouth. except you immediately change your mind after you bite down. holy shit, it's just straight garlic. you grimace, immediately uncrossing your arms to cover your mouth. you can't even taste the linguine. groaning, you try not to spit out the food. no matter how bad a dish may be, you wholeheartedly believe it's rude to spit it out in front of the person who made it. furthermore, this was sylus we're talking about; your fricking boyfriend. you scrunch your shoulders as you painfully swallow, instantly reaching over the counter for a glass of water. after you relieve your mouth of garlic hell (it didn't help at all), you face sylus, glaring at him with all your might.

"that's too much garlic!" you snap, using one hand to slap sylus' shoulder and another to cover your mouth, overwhelmed by the smell. trying to ignore sylus' snickers, you drink more water. this motherfucker dares to laugh at your agony. you swear the next time he calls you over for some parmesan garlic linguine, you're going to tell him to shove a garlic braid up his ass.

"oh come on, sweetie," sylus jests as he twirls some more noodles with his fork before offering them to you again. "it can't be that bad."

you look at him with wide eyes. there's no way he's serious right now. "why don't YOU try then?"

"gladly," sylus says smugly. he takes a bite and lets out an obnoxious "mmm!" you scoff when he goes back for a second bite, unable to believe the audacity he has.

"there's no way it tastes that good," you say as you jerk your head away, determined to stay mad at him. "you just want to flatter your cooking."

"you're missing out," sylus says nonchalantly as he takes another bite. "besides, garlic is good for your health. it can provide a lot of strength. in fact, laborers were fed garlic back then, so they could have enough stamina. "

you roll your eyes. of course, he brings health into this. not that there's nothing wrong with it. you actually admire how much sylus takes care of himself. he's quite the competent man. but you know what he's doing. he's making fun of you. your eyes can't help but twitch as you look down at your plate. good for your health, my ass. no way an entire plate (sylus has massive plates by the way) topped with heaps of garlic is good for anyone. not even five serving spoons can rid your plate of its garlic slices.

suddenly, you get an idea.

"hey, sylus," you say as you reach over the counter for the serving spoon he used earlier to serve your plate. "since you like your linguine soooo much, mind if i feed you?"

sylus doesn't look up from his plate, clearly too occupied with his own making. "sure, sweetie."

you giggle, setting the spoon against the edge of your plate before scraping only the garlic slices onto it. given how much garlic there was, it doesn't take long for you to fill the giant spoon with it—garlic and garlic only.

"don't do that."

"don't do what?" you don't stop scraping.

"that," sylus answers as he warily eyes the spoon your hand is now holding up to his face. that was, indeed, too much garlic.

"come onnnn," it's your turn to tease. "there's no such thing as too much garlic, right? besides, it's good for your health. what good is the head of onychinus if he doesn't have enough stamina?"

"i have plenty of stamina," sylus insists. "and that," he juts his chin towards the spoon, "is too much stamina."

you snort as you nudge the spoon closer, ignoring him entirely. "say ah! eat and gain lots of stamina! you need it!" you chirp as you lift your free hand and extend it underneath the spoon, hoping to catch any stray slices.

sylus' eyes flicker from the spoon to your face. he leans in, acting as if he's going to listen to you. though, not before asking, "where will i use all this stamina? will you use it with me?"

you choke, immediately retracting the spoon. "what?!" you dump all of the garlic back onto the plate, avoiding the amused look on sylus' face and also the imagery of exciting... stamina-related activities involving him. "pervert," you grumble, a rosy hue appearing on your cheeks.

"i was talking about training, sweetie," he smirks.

no fucking way. you gape at him, not believing a single word.

sylus stifles a laugh, enjoying the hilarious expression on your face. look at you, so cutely flustered over the idea of taking your relationship to the next level. yes, he was talking about whatever was going on in that head of yours. no, he wasn't talking about training. but hiding such a fact was worth it, given your embarrassed state. wanting to admire your adorable face some more, sylus grips your chin before tilting it up.

"although, i'm not against what you have in mind, sweetie."

[julietsf1]

Off Limits - Kenan Yildiz x Bellingham!Reader

summary: Jude had one rule: his sister was strictly off-limits. Kenan really tried to listen, really did. But then you smiled at him, and, well—there was no coming back from that. (18k words)

content: brother's best friend, slow burn, secret relationship, forbidden love, slight angst

AN: wrote this on the plane the other day!! can't lie guys, I have a real soft spot for Madrid since I had an exchange there & with the recent rumours on the possibility of Kenan leaving Juve I just had to write this! It is looooong but being a binge reader myself I always prefer long stories over multiple chapters :) hope u enjoy! ciao

------------------------------------------------

The house smelled of garlic and slow-simmering tomatoes, the kind of warmth that wrapped around you the second you stepped inside. It was familiar, homey—but unexpected. Jude rarely cooked unless coerced, which meant one thing:

He had help.

Following the hum of conversation and the occasional clatter of pans, you stepped into the kitchen—and immediately stopped short.

Jude stood by the stove, stirring something that, shockingly, looked edible. Beside him, moving with effortless ease, was a second figure, sleeves pushed up, knife in hand, chopping vegetables with practiced precision.

Your brows lifted slightly.

Kenan Yıldız.

You recognized him instantly—not just because of who he was, but because Jude never shut up about him. His name had been woven into conversations for weeks now. One of the best new signings at Madrid. Got along with Jude right away.

What you hadn’t expected was… this.

Kenan fit into the kitchen like he had been coming to your house for years. The smooth rhythm of his hands, the clean efficiency as he gathered greens in his palm before tossing them into a bowl—it was clear he knew what he was doing. He didn’t even look up at first, simply remarking,

“You must be Jude’s sister.”

His voice was warm, rich, touched with something amused—like he already knew you.

You blinked. “And you must be the new recruit.”

That got his attention. He looked up then and—okay, wow.

It wasn’t just that he was handsome; that was a given. It was how he carried himself—calm, unhurried, effortlessly present, as if he didn’t need to take up space to be noticed. His dazling green eyes met yours, gaze steady, warm, quietly amused. Like he was taking you in, waiting to see what you’d say next.

Jude, oblivious to the shift in the air, barely looked up. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s not helping.”

Kenan scoffed, feigning offense. “Excuse me? I’m doing all the hard work.”

“You’re cutting vegetables,” Jude deadpanned.

“With flawless precision,” Kenan shot back.

You leaned against the counter, watching them, amused despite yourself.

“You actually cook?” you asked, directing the question at Kenan.

He nodded, as if it were obvious. “Of course.”

Jude let out a disbelieving snort. “He’s lying.”

Kenan pressed a hand to his chest, mock wounded. “What’s with the judging, Judy?”

“You literally looked up a tutorial on TikTok when you picked up the knife.”

Kenan smirked. “And? I’m a quick learner.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Unexpected. Kenan’s gaze flickered to you, and for a brief moment, his expression softened.

Clearing your throat, you fought to regain the upper hand. “So, you’re just here to show off, then?”

Kenan shrugged. “Figured I should try my best to impress the sister I’ve heard so much about.”

You tilted your head. “Are you this smooth with everyone, or am I just special?”

His smile was slow, a little surprised—like he wasn’t expecting you to match him but found that he liked it.

“A little of both,” he admitted. “But mainly the latter.”

Jude groaned, dramatically turning away from the stove. “Oh my days. Don’t make me wack you with this spatula Kenan.”

Kenan smirked. “No worries, bro”

Yet he was still watching you, eyes glinting, something unreadable flickering behind them—like he wasn’t sure what to make of you yet.

You stretched out comfortably in the kitchen chair. “I think I’ll just sit here and watch. This is way more entertaining than I expected.”

Kenan chuckled, reaching for another onion. “As long as you’re enjoying yourself.”

The worst part? You did.

Jude, still focused on the pan, added, “For the record, Kenan practically begged to be invited over.”

Kenan exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That’s a dramatic way to put it.”

You arched a brow. “So what’s the less dramatic version?”

Kenan wiped his hands on a towel, leaning back against the counter. “I mentioned I had nothing to do tonight, and your brother insisted I come over.”

Jude scoffed. “You asked what I was making for dinner and then said, That sounds nice. I wish I had plans.”

Kenan shrugged, utterly unbothered. “And you invited me. So, really, this is on you.”

You hummed, amused. “Strategic play.”

Kenan’s lips twitched. “Can you blame me? Good food, good company…” His eyes flickered to you for half a second before he added, “I think I made the right call.”

Jude, oblivious, just shook his head. “Right. Well, you can do the dishes, then.”

Kenan sighed, dramatic as ever. “That’s not how guests should be treated.”

You smirked, shaking your head at him.

Jude barely paid attention, focused on stirring the pan. “Kenan’s alright,” he muttered. “One of the only friends I actually trust with my life.”

Kenan looked over at him, a little surprised, like he wasn’t expecting the sentiment to be voiced so easily.

Jude continued, utterly unfazed. “That being said—just so you know—same rule applies to him as everyone else.”

He finally turned, fixing Kenan with a pointed look. “She’s off-limits.”

The air shifted.

Your expression twisted immediately. “Excuse me?”

Jude didn’t even glance at you. His focus remained on Kenan, casual but firm. It was clear he didn’t think twice about saying it, just like he had with every other teammate, every other friend. It was instinct.

Kenan, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He held Jude’s stare for a long moment, something unreadable passing through his expression before it turned into a friendly smile.

“Duly noted.”

Jude gave him a little slap on the back, before turning back to the stove. 

“Not that I don’t trust you, man. Just needed you to know.”

And then, just as effortlessly, just as naturally as if this were all a game only he knew the rules to—

Kenan winked at you.

You wanted to throw something.

Kenan just chuckled under his breath, tossing a handful of chopped parsley into the dish.

Jude, completely oblivious, still hunched over the stove, stirring like nothing had happened.

You exhaled slowly, chest feeling tighter than before.

This was going to be a problem.

…

The night was already borderline ridiculous before you even set foot on the course.

Disco golf.

Who in their right mind came up with this?

The artificial grass glowed with neon strips, fluorescent obstacles scattered across each hole like some kind of fever dream. Overhead, strobe lights pulsed in sync with a painfully bad club remix blaring from the speakers. It was an assault on the senses in every possible way.

And yet, somehow, this group made it work.

You barely had a chance to breathe before Antoine Griezmann materialized out of nowhere, his signature shit-eating grin firmly in place.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, flipping a golf ball between his fingers like it was a poker chip. “Look who finally showed up.”

“I was literally five minutes late.”

Antoine was as predictable as ever—an insufferable smooth-talker, equal parts charming and irritating. He had tried it with you once, a half-baked attempt at flirting that had crashed and burned spectacularly. Instead of being embarrassed, he had turned it into a long-running joke at your expense. Or at least, he claimed it was a joke. 

You rolled your eyes. “I see Jude didn’t immediately chase you out of here. He must be in a good mood.”

Antoine pressed a hand to his chest, mock wounded. “Why do people assume your brother hates me?”

“Because he does,” a new voice chimed in.

Vini Jr. 

The responsible one. The glue that held the group together. He was calm, steady, unbothered—unless you insulted his dance routine, in which case, he suffered more than anyone you knew.

Vini clapped Antoine on the back, his expression completely deadpan. “And for good reason.”

Antoine scoffed. “You wound me, bro.”

Before Vini could respond, a golf club swung dangerously close to both their faces.

“Boys, boys,” Arda Güler interrupted, dramatically flourishing his club like he was starring in a medieval jousting match. The lovable idiot, always at the center of chaos. His entire personality was built on making bad decisions and hoping for the best.

“This is a game of precision, not violence.” He spun his club around before dramatically planting it into the ground. “And I will emerge victorious.”

“You say that every time,” Vini muttered.

Arda ignored him.

A hand clapped down on your shoulder, and you turned to find Julián Álvarez standing beside you, unreadable as always.

“Should I even ask why you agreed to this?” he asked, voice low, amusement barely detectable.

Julián was the quietest of the group—the type who didn’t say much but noticed everything. He never inserted himself into drama, but if you needed advice, someone to talk to, or a brutally honest reality check, he was the guy.

You shrugged. “Morbid curiosity.”

Julián hummed, unconvinced.

The group started pairing up, and you had already resigned yourself to being stuck with Jude, as always. But before you could even move, Arda slung an arm around Jude’s shoulders.

“I’m with Jude,” he announced decisively, leaving no room for argument.

Jude shot him an incredulous look. “Since when?”

“Since now,” Arda said, already dragging him toward the first hole. “You’re good at this, right? Because I refuse to lose.”

You barely had time to process the betrayal before Julián and Vini shuffeled a little closer together as well. 

Great. That left you with either Antoine or Kenan.

Your eyes flickered toward Antoine, who was casually flipping his golf ball in one hand, smirking like he was already planning something insufferable.

Without a second thought, you turned to Kenan instead.

He was already watching you, utterly unbothered, twirling his club with the same easy confidence he carried in everything.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me,” he said, handing you your ball.

Your fingers tightened around it as you met his gaze.

“Lucky me.”

Kenan’s lips twitched, just slightly. “I was thinking the same thing.”

Jude, too preoccupied with arguing with Arda over proper golf technique, hadn’t even noticed—let alone the way heat crept up your neck as Kenan watched you with quiet amusement.

…

The first few holes passed in a blur of neon-lit obstacles and questionable golf techniques. Arda was taking things far too seriously, Jude was arguing about angles like this was an actual competition, and Antoine had already managed to cheat twice—though no one could prove it.

Kenan, to your mild surprise, was actually decent at it. Not overly competitive, but smooth, precise. Effortless.

Annoyingly so.

You, on the other hand, were not having as much luck. Your shots weren’t terrible, but they also weren’t particularly impressive. And Kenan, who had the unfortunate privilege of witnessing every single attempt, was clearly enjoying himself.

By the fifth hole, you were losing patience.

Kenan leaned on his club, watching as your ball veered slightly off-course. “Not bad,” he mused. “But I think you’re gripping the club too tight.”

You shot him a look. “Thanks, coach.”

He grinned. “Anytime.”

You exhaled, adjusting your stance before trying again. The ball rolled forward, making it past the obstacle this time but still stopping just short of the hole.

Kenan made a thoughtful sound. “Better.”

You turned to him, exasperated. “Do you actually have tips, or are you just enjoying watching me struggle?”

He tilted his head, considering. “Little bit of both.”

You huffed, shaking your head as you lined up for another shot. But before you could take it, you felt him step closer.

Too close.

Kenan reached out, adjusting your grip on the club before you could protest. “Relax,” he murmured, voice low enough that Jude—still distracted by Arda—wouldn’t hear. “You’re overthinking it.”

Your pulse jumped.

You were sure he knew exactly what he was doing. The proximity, the subtle amusement laced through his words—it was intentional.

You rolled your shoulders, pretending the heat creeping up your neck was from frustration. “Are you showing off again?”

Kenan smirked. “If I were showing off, you’d know.”

Before you could come up with a response, he took a step back, gesturing toward the ball. “Try again.”

You did. And, to your surprise, it went in.

You blinked at the hole, momentarily stunned.

Kenan’s smirk deepened. “See? All you needed was the right guidance.”

You turned to him, unimpressed. “You’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you?”

He shrugged, all faux innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You exhaled sharply, turning back to the course.

…

The next morning, you sat across from Jude at your favorite café, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries curling around you like a comforting embrace.

Brunch had become a ritual—a chance to catch up, talk nonsense, and, more often than not, for Jude to rant about something that had deeply offended his very specific worldview that week.

Today, that thing was Antoine Griezmann.

You weren’t even five minutes into your meal before Jude leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and let out a deep, dramatic sigh.

“I hate him.”

You didn’t even have to ask who he was talking about.

Still, you took a slow sip of your coffee, humoring him. “Antoine?”

Jude scoffed. “Obviously Antoine.”

You hummed in amusement, cutting into your pancake. “What did he do this time?”

Jude leaned forward, elbows braced against the table. “What did he do? He was one second away from licking your face off, did you miss that?”

You snorted. “He was annoying, but I wouldn’t say that.”

Jude shot you a deeply unimpressed look. “He was testing my patience.”

You arched a brow, feigning innocence. “So… your patience is thin, then?”

“My patience doesn’t exist when it comes to my friends hitting on my sister,” he stated, as if it were fact.

“Technically, he didn’t hit on me,” you pointed out.

Jude’s glare was immediate. “He was setting up for it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t worry. You know I’d never reciprocate anything anyway, right?”

“You better not.”

You exhaled through your nose, reaching for your coffee.

Because this was just Jude. Overprotective, borderline ridiculous, but never in a way that truly irritated you—because you knew it came from a good place.

Still, that didn’t mean he wasn’t overdoing it.

Jude took a sip of his drink, shaking his head. “It’s a hard rule. No friends of mine. Ever.”

You almost choked on your coffee.

Then, slowly, you leaned back in your chair. “Aren’t you going a bit far?”

“It’s for the best.”

“It’s insane.”

Jude crossed his arms. “You know footballers. You know I’m right.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed.

Because, unfortunately, he had a point. You weren’t blind.

You had spent enough time around Jude and his teammates to know how they moved—always on the go, always in a whirlwind of temporary flings, casual connections, never really rooted anywhere.

Still, your mind drifted to Kenan, who did not give you that impression at all.

You eyed him, unimpressed. “So what are you aiming at? Immediate death if they look at me?”

Jude barely hesitated. “Immediate exile.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “A bit dramatic.”

“I think it’s still very generous.”

You sighed, knowing this was an argument you wouldn’t win.

…

The house was alive.

Music pulsed through the walls, the bass thrumming beneath your feet like a second heartbeat. Laughter spilled from the kitchen, where a group of guys were debating whether or not vodka actually made you better at beer pong. The air smelled of alcohol, sweat, and something vaguely burnt—probably whatever disaster Arda had left in the oven.

It was the kind of night that blurred at the edges, full of bad decisions and good memories. The kind of night where anything could happen.

And yet you barely registered any of it.

Because he was here.

You felt Kenan’s presence like static in the air, a pull that had been getting harder and harder to ignore. It had been this way all night—glances exchanged across the room, fleeting, lingering.

He was talking to someone, laughing at something Arda had said, but even as he smiled—as if nothing in the world was out of place—

You knew better.

Because he kept looking at you, too.

Short, quick glances that made your pulse kick up a notch.

You tore your gaze away, turning your attention to the nearest distraction.

Unfortunately, that distraction came in the form of Antoine Griezmann.

“Well, well,” Antoine drawled, appearing beside you with his usual brand of obnoxious charm. “If it isn’t my favorite Bellingham.”

You sighed, already bracing yourself. “Oh, God.”

Antoine grinned. “Did you miss me?”

“No.”

“Lies. Say it again, maybe I’ll believe you this time.”

You turned to face him, unimpressed. “Antoine, it’s physically impossible for me to miss you when you’re always finding new and creative ways to bother me.”

Antoine pressed a hand to his chest, feigning heartbreak. “Always so feisty.”

You didn’t even bother responding.

Suddenly his hand landed on your waist.

Casual. Uninvited.

Before you could even react and push him back, Jude was there, looking very angry. Oh god. 

His voice was sharp, unamused, cutting through the noise like a blade.

“Antoine.”

Antoine turned, lazy grin still in place. “Jude. Nice house party.”

Jude’s jaw ticked. “Get your hand off my sister.”

Antoine raised his hands in mock surrender. “Relax. Just saying hi.”

Jude’s eyes narrowed. “Okay. Say it differently.”

Antoine smirked. “Don’t be so pressed.”

Jude now looked ready to commit an actual crime.

And just like that, you’d had enough.

You weren’t about to stand around while Jude and Antoine had another one of their pissing contests.

“You boys have fun,” you muttered, pushing past them before either could stop you.

You felt Jude’s glare follow you.

You didn’t care.

You weaved through the crowd, exhaling slowly, trying to shake the tension tightening in your chest.

Suddenly, a hand brushed against yours. Barely there. Just enough to make you notice.

Before you could process it, fingers wrapped around your wrist. Light, but firm. A silent don’t go that way.

No words. Just a pull—smooth and effortless—like he had already decided you were coming with him.

You didn’t fight it. Just let Kenan steer you through the crowd until the heavy bass dulled and cool night air brushed your skin.

Only then did he let go.

Kenan exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. “You okay?”

Your arms crossed over your chest. "I should be asking you that."

He let out a breathy chuckle. "Why?"

"Because you just dragged me out of a party without saying a word."

Kenan smirked. “You followed.”

You rolled your eyes. “Not the point.”

He didn’t argue. Instead, his eyes flickered back toward the door—checking. Not for just anyone. For one person in particular.

Your stomach flipped at the realization. 

"Antoine gets on your nerves that much?" you asked, tilting your head.

Kenan sighed, leaning against the railing. "You could say that."

Without thinking, you reached out, your fingertips barely brushing his forearm. A fleeting touch, light as air, easy enough to pass off as nothing.

Kenan went completely still.

His green eyes flickered down to where your skin met his before slowly dragging back up to your face, something dark and unreadable swimming in them.

"You really care about that?" you murmured, barely above a whisper.

Kenan’s lips quirked, but his voice was steady. "Should I not?"

You held his gaze, pulse quickening. You knew damn well it was never just about Antoine. 

It was about you.

It was about the way Kenan had been watching you all night, the way he kept finding ways to be near you, the way his eyes dipped to your lips before flicking away like he hadn’t just done that.

You swallowed hard.

“We can’t do this,” Kenan murmured, but he didn’t move back.

He was still standing too close, still looking at you like he was already too far gone.

And you, reckless, breathless, said the words before you could stop yourself.

"I think it’s too late for that."

A flicker of something passed through his expression—uncertainty, hesitation, but that disappeared when he closed the space between you, his lips meeting yours.

It was slow at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was really allowed to, like he thought you might push him away. His lips brushed against yours once, twice—light, barely there, testing. But then you exhaled against him, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and that hesitation unraveled.

His hand found your waist, gripping just firmly enough to keep you anchored as his other slid up, fingers skimming along your jaw before cupping your face, tilting it up to him. The railing pressed into your back, cold against your skin, but you barely noticed. All you could focus on was the warmth of him, the way his lips pressed deeper against yours, like he was memorizing the way you felt, the way you fit against him.

A slow, lingering drag of his mouth over yours, a quiet hitch of breath as your fingers twisted tighter into his shirt. When you tilted your head just slightly, letting him deepen the kiss, a quiet sound rumbled from his throat—a low, pleased hum that sent heat coursing through your veins.

It was a mess of pent-up frustration, of every unsaid thing, every stolen glance that had led to this exact moment.

And you didn’t stop him. You couldn’t. Ignoring all the alarm bells that were supposed to go off inside your head. 

You chased it, chased him, let him pull you closer, let the weight of his body press against yours until—

The door creaked open.

You and Kenan broke apart instantly, breathless, heat still prickling under your skin.

Julián stepped onto the terrace, stretching.

You forced your breath to slow, straightening slightly.

Kenan rubbed the back of his neck, looking too casual.

Julián barely glanced at either of you. “Too loud in there,” he muttered, yawning.

Your heart was still pounding.

Julián paused, frowning slightly. “Why do you two look so—”

“Weird lighting,” Kenan cut in smoothly.

Julián squinted, then shrugged before turning away again. "Huh. Cool."

You risked a glance at Kenan.

And even though neither of you said anything, you both knew. This was far from over.

…

The morning after a party was always far too quiet.

The kind of quiet that exaggerated every tiny sound—every creak, every rustle—as if conspiring to remind you of all your questionable choices. Choices like sneaking onto terraces. Choices involving certain footballers whose names started with ‘K’ and ended with ‘enan.’

Yes, questionable indeed.

At breakfast, you tried to appear casual—a tall order given your current mental spiral. You clutched your lukewarm coffee like a lifeline, while across from you, Kenan sat annoyingly unbothered, spreading butter on toast with the ease of someone who had never had a scandalous terrace rendezvous.

Your narrowed eyes did nothing to shake his composure.

And because the universe loved tormenting you, Jude entered the kitchen at that precise moment, looking impressively disgruntled for someone still wearing last night’s hoodie. He slammed a plate down with the melodrama reserved for mornings after.

"Antoine Griezmann," he began, as if invoking an arch-nemesis, "is the biggest dickhead I’ve ever met."

Kenan, infuriatingly calm, took a sip of coffee. "Good morning to you too, Jude."

"Unbelievable," Jude muttered, turning to you. "That man has zero sense of boundaries."

From beside you came Arda’s voice, muffled by his folded arms. "For the love of God, lower your voice."

"You didn’t even drink," Jude shot back.

Arda lifted his head slightly, wincing. "The drinks weren’t the problem. The nachos, on the other hand…"

No one disagreed. The faint scent of burnt tortilla chips still lingered accusingly.

"Anyway," Jude continued, undeterred, "Antoine is officially banned from future gatherings."

You sighed. So much for hoping he’d drop the issue overnight.

"He put his hands on you," Jude emphasized. "I should’ve decked him."

"Jude. He barely touched me."

Jude scoffed. "Barely? You’re seriously defending him?"

"I’m not defending him. He’s a prick, but you’re overreacting."

Jude muttered something darkly under his breath.

Arda, finally awake enough to contribute, chuckled. "Antoine thinks he has a chance with everyone."

"Exactly!" Jude pointed triumphantly. "This is why—"

You braced yourself.

"No friends of mine. Ever."

There it was. Jude’s favorite rule, delivered with his usual finality.

Across from you, Kenan finally broke his silence, eyes amused above his coffee cup. "Are you always this intense before noon?"

"Don't start," Jude shot back.

Arda sighed. "Jude’s still recovering from his Antoine-induced rage episode."

"It wouldn’t be necessary if people listened to me," Jude muttered, sitting heavily with his breakfast.

You kept your focus on your now-cold coffee, resisting the urge to grimace. The last thing you needed was Jude sensing anything off.

But the silence stretched. You caved—stealing a quick glance across the table.

Kenan was already watching you.

Not brooding. Enjoying this. The way his gaze lingered was insufferable—calm, playful, like he knew exactly what was on your mind.

Your brows lifted. What?

The corner of his mouth curved—barely. A quiet tease. A private acknowledgment of shared misbehavior.

Your cheeks warmed. You turned back to your coffee.

Kenan cleared his throat softly, hiding his amusement with another slow sip.

It was going to be a long breakfast.

…

The living room was a battlefield of discarded hoodies, half-empty snack bags, and abandoned water bottles—the kind of war zone that only a FIFA night in full swing could create.

Jude was perched at the edge of the couch, controller clutched in both hands, his entire body tense with single-minded focus.

Julián, annoyingly composed, sat next to him, casual but lethal, dismantling the opposition with the kind of effortless precision that made everyone else look bad.

Arda, however, was mid-meltdown.

“This game is rigged,” he groaned, throwing his arms up as the ball sailed over the goal, missing by an embarrassing margin.

Vini barely spared him a glance. “You guys just suck.”

Arda let out a dramatic sigh, flopping back onto the couch. “Next round, we’re switching teams.”

And then, of course, there was Kenan. Lounging back against the cushions, controller resting lazily in his hands, watching the chaos like it was free entertainment.

His lips twitched slightly when he noticed you standing near the doorway. A quick once-over, deliberate, measured.

You ignored the way your stomach tightened under his stare.

"You guys still at this?" you asked, stepping further inside.

Jude didn’t even look up. " Vini’s on some demon mode tonight."

Vini smirked, glancing at you. "It’s not my fault everyone else is bad."

Arda, ever dramatic, flopped across the couch like a fallen soldier. “This is what I get for believing in myself.”

Kenan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Maybe next time, Arda."

Arda shot him a glare before tilting his head toward you.

"Are you keen on joining, or do you have more productive things planned?"

You rolled your eyes. "I’m getting water and then I need to finish my paper, unfortunately ."

...

The second you stepped into the kitchen, you exhaled, pressing your hands against the countertop.

You just needed a moment. A pause. A second to collect yourself..

But apparently, tonight wasn’t going to grant you that luxury.

Footsteps.

"It’s really cute how you get all flustered."

His voice was softer this time, teasing but not sharp, laced with something warmer, something dangerously close to fondness.

You turned slowly.

Kenan stood by the counter, one hand resting lightly against the surface, his posture relaxed in a way that felt entirely deliberate. His gaze swept over you—not just playful, not just amused. Knowing.

"You followed me," you murmured, willing your voice to stay steady.

Kenan tilted his head slightly, an easy smile playing at his lips. "Felt like the right direction to go."

Not a denial. Not an admission. Just a quiet, magnetic pull in the form of words.

"You need to stop looking at me like that," you muttered.

Kenan raised an eyebrow, gaze steady. "Like what?"

You swallowed.

He was too close. Close enough that you caught the faintest trace of his cologne, the warmth of his presence wrapping around you in ways you didn’t have the strength to ignore.

"Like you want to kiss me," you said, quieter this time.

Something flickered in his expression—brief but unmistakable.

"I do," he said simply.

The air between you shifted.

He wasn’t smirking now. He wasn’t toying with you.

"You can’t say things like that," you murmured.

"Why not?"

You opened your mouth, but you struggeled to find words.

Because what were you supposed to say? That he made it impossible to think straight? That you had spent the entire morning replaying the way he kissed you last night? That if you let yourself, you might start thinking about how much you wanted him to do it again?

"Because Jude—"

There it was.

The reason why you should be walking away right now.

Kenan sighed, running a hand through his hair. The teasing was gone now, something quieter settling in its place.

"You think I don’t know that?" he muttered.

Your breath caught.

Kenan took another step forward.

The kitchen felt smaller. The air, heavier. A quiet moment stretched between you. Not tense. Not uncertain. Just… waiting.

His gaze flickered to your lips for a fraction of a second.

And then he kissed you.

There was no hesitation this time.

His hands found your waist first, pulling you against him with quiet urgency, like he had been holding back for far too long.

Your breath caught, fingers gripping the front of his hoodie as he deepened the kiss, steady and deliberate. Like he wanted to memorize the way you felt against him. Like he wanted to savor every second of it.

His fingers pressed against your back, firm, grounding. Your heart stuttered as he lifted you effortlessly, setting you onto the counter like he had been meaning to do it all along.

Your legs parted instinctively to let him step between them.

And when his lips left yours, trailing down, brushing along your jaw, then lower—

A quiet sigh escaped before you could stop it.

Kenan smiled against your skin, pressing another slow, lingering kiss just below your ear.

You barely had the presence of mind to cling to him, hands twisted in his hoodie, breath uneven.

He stepped away, leaving behind the faintest trace of warmth where his hands had been. Not far. Just enough for you to feel the absence of his warmth. 

Your pulse was a mess, your mind struggling to keep up. 

His lips brushed your ear, voice barely above a whisper.

"I really like you."

The shift was instant, the absence of him unsettling in a way you hadn’t prepared for.

You blinked, fingers still curled against the counter, as if letting go might send you tumbling into something you weren’t ready to name.

Kenan smirked—subtle, something almost teasing but not quite.

Then, with a lingering glance, he winked and walked out.

Like this hadn’t just changed everything.

You exhaled slowly, staring at the empty doorway, thoughts colliding too fast to make sense of.

Because Kenan Yıldız liked you. And you we’re definitely enjoying his company too.

It took a full minute before your body caught up with your brain.

Even as you stepped forward, something felt off—like you were still hovering in the space Kenan had left behind, the ghost of his hands on your waist lingering longer than they should. You inhaled sharply, straightened your shirt, and walked out of the kitchen with a carefully practiced ease.

Past the living room. Toward the stairs. Just a few more steps and you’d be free.

When all of a sudden Jude looked up. His brows immediately pulled together. "You look like shit."

You halted mid-step. “Excuse me?”

He tilted his head, studying you like some kind of medical anomaly. "Did you die in the kitchen? What’s wrong with you?"

From the couch, Arda barely lifted his head, his voice dry. "Maybe she saw whatever’s still in the oven. That alone could ruin anyone’s night."

You forced a laugh, shaking your head. "You guys still haven’t cleaned that?"

Jude didn’t blink. "Right. Well, hope you’re okay." His suspicion deepened, his gaze lingering a second too long.

Your eyes flicked to Kenan.

He was leaning back against the couch, controller in hand, seemingly absorbed in the game. Nothing about his expression gave anything away, but you noticed his almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. A silent reminder of what had just happened.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, heat creeping up your neck as you tore your gaze away before he could make things worse.

…

If someone had told you a few weeks ago that you’d be sneaking around behind Jude’s back, stealing glances and secret touches with his best friend, you would have laughed.

But here you were. And you weren’t stopping.

At first, it had been subtle. Little things that could be dismissed as nothing if anyone noticed.

The way Kenan’s knee would press against yours when you sat side by side, lingering a second too long before shifting away—always with that small, knowing smile. 

The way he’d find excuses to touch you in passing—a hand grazing the small of your back, fingers brushing against yours when he handed you something, the steady warmth of his palm resting on your waist as he leaned in to whisper something only you could hear.

You hadn’t been sure if it was intentional. If he was testing the limits.

Then came the car rides.

Kenan had convinced Jude that carpooling to training made sense, especially on days when Jude had plans afterward and wouldn’t be heading straight home.

And suddenly, Kenan was picking you up after work, dropping you home after practice, stretching the moments when it was just the two of you for as long as possible.

The car was dangerous. No one else around. No one to stop things from slipping past the point of denial.

Like the first time he had reached over—mid-traffic—to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

His fingers barely skimmed your skin, but the feeling traveled everywhere.

Or the time you had been venting about something Jude had done, and Kenan had just… reached over and taken your hand.

No smirk. No joke. No performance.

Just a gentle squeeze, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles over your knuckles, his eyes still on the road, completely at ease in a moment that made your stomach twist into knots.

You just let him hold your hand all the way home.

And then there were the kisses. Stolen between car doors, in the quiet seconds before you had to pretend you weren’t completely unraveling for him. Kisses that left you breathless.

You weren’t sure how you had gotten here—how you had gone from avoiding him to falling straight into something neither of you could escape. The guilt of lying to Jude being overwhelmed by the joy you found whenever you two were together.

…

You were really not that much of a club goer. You hadn’t even planned on coming tonight.

But Jude had insisted, dragging you out with the usual crew, declaring that it had been far too long since your last proper night out. Maybe that should have been the first red flag.

Second red flag was Antoine. Obviously. 

He had been circling all night, hovering just close enough to make his presence known, just persistent enough to keep himself within your reach. Jude, already too deep into his drinks, was in no state to notice, leaving you to deal with him alone.

"Come on," Antoine leaned in, breath warm against your ear, his confidence as misplaced as ever. "Just one dance?"

You took a step back, trying to create space. "No, thanks."

If he heard the sharp edge in your voice, he chose to ignore it.

"Don’t be like that," he coaxed, grinning, still far too close.

Before you could respond, a presence settled beside you, calm and steady. Kenan.

He didn’t push, didn’t pull you away, didn’t do anything that could turn this into a scene. Instead, his fingers brushed against your wrist, light but deliberate, just enough to remind you he was there. That he had seen. That he wasn’t going to let this happen.

Antoine stiffened slightly. His smirk faltered, just for a second, before something sharp flickered in his gaze.

His hand lingered, his fingers warm against your skin, and suddenly Antoine decided he wasn’t so interested anymore.

"Didn’t realize you had another bodyguard," he muttered before stepping back, disappearing into the crowd without waiting for a response.

Kenan’s fingers squeezed yours for just a moment longer before he let go, as if anchoring you before he released you completely.

Away from the worst of the noise, he turned to face you. "You okay?"

You exhaled, forcing the tension from your shoulders. "Yeah. Antoine is just—"

"A problem?"

"My most annoying problem."

Kenan smirked, leaning in slightly, his voice low enough to send heat rushing to your face. "Am I your favorite problem?"

The question made something flutter in your chest, but before you could answer, he kissed you.

There was nothing rushed about it. His lips met yours like he had been waiting all night for this. His hands found your hips, fingers pressing just enough to keep you there, like letting go wasn’t an option he was considering.

Your breath hitched as he deepened the kiss, his smile pressing into yours when you tugged him closer, the warmth of his mouth making it impossible to think about anything else.

"Kenan!"

The sound barely registered before Kenan was being yanked away, leaving you momentarily dazed, still gripping the fabric of his shirt.

Arda, far too exasperated to even recognize you in the dimmed lights, clung to Kenan’s shoulder like a lifeline.

"Bro, you gotta come quick."

Kenan blinked, still slightly dazed himself. "What?"

"Jude. Russian shots. It’s bad."

Kenan let out a slow, exhausted sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. " Scheiße."

You bit your lip to keep from laughing.

He hesitated for a second, gaze flickering back to you, something tender in his expression.

Then, leaning in just enough that only you could hear him, he murmured, "I’ll see you soon, baby."

And with that, he let himself be dragged into whatever disaster Jude and Arda had created, disappearing into the chaos of the club, leaving you standing there, still catching up.

…

Jude was dead weight against your shoulder, his entire body slumped into yours as you half-dragged, half-guided him through the front door. His hoodie was pulled up over his face, barely concealing the mess of curls spilling out, and his sneakers scraped lazily against the floor as he mumbled nonsense under his breath.

It had been a long night.

You should have known this would happen—should have expected that your always-overdoing-it brother would push himself too far, too fast, too recklessly, just because he could.

The others had offered to help, but you had waved them off, insisting you had him. And you did. Even if he was an absolute nightmare to get through the door.

You exhaled sharply as he nearly collapsed onto you.

"Jude," you muttered, shifting his weight. "Come on, just a little further."

A sleepy, unintelligible grumble was the only response before you finally managed to maneuver him onto the couch. His body melted into the cushions immediately, limbs sprawled in every possible direction, completely unaware that you had just spent the last of your strength hauling him inside.

"Never drinking again," he mumbled.

You rolled your eyes, pulling a blanket over him. "Uh-huh."

His breathing had already slowed, the heavy pull of sleep dragging him under. Then, just as his consciousness slipped entirely, his voice came—soft, barely audible.

"I’m glad you’re here."

Your throat tightened unexpectedly. Jude wasn’t sentimental. Not like this. 

Not when he was awake, anyway.

You wanted to brush it off, let it roll past you like the other half-coherent things he had been mumbling all night.

But the words settled somewhere deeper than you expected.

Your phone buzzed against your palm.

One new message.

Kenan: Can I see you?

…

You cracked the door open, the cool night air whispering against your skin. Kenan stood there, hands tucked into his pockets, gaze steady—warm, waiting. The streetlights cast a soft glow along his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the quiet hesitation in his expression.

He wasn’t pushing. Wasn’t asking for anything more than what you were willing to give. But he was here.

You hesitated for only a second before stepping aside, letting him in.

Kenan moved past you, slow, deliberate, his presence filling the space effortlessly. The scent of his cologne lingered in the air—warm, clean, familiar in a way that made your stomach twist. The door clicked shut behind him, closing the rest of the world out.

Something between you felt different now, heavier with everything unspoken.

"You didn’t have to come," you murmured, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

Kenan’s lips curved slightly, but the teasing edge was softer this time.

"I wanted to." His gaze searched yours, careful, intent. "I kept thinking about you. And I didn’t want to fall asleep wishing I was here instead."

Your fingers curled at your sides, gripping at nothing. "That’s..." You trailed off, words failing you. "That’s really sweet."

His smile deepened, laced with something warmer, something almost adoring. "I was worried I’d crossed into ‘hopelessly obsessed’ territory."

"Never said those things are mutually exclusive."

Kenan laughed. His fingers brushed against yours, hesitant at first—like he was giving you an out, a final moment to stop this before the line blurred beyond return.

You let his touch linger, let his fingers curl loosely around yours, warm and steady.

His voice was softer now. "I’m really glad to see you."

Your chest tightened. The weight of his words settled deep, making it harder to ignore what you already knew.

Your pulse quickened. Swallowing, keeping your voice low, careful, you murmured, "We should go upstairs. Before we wake Jude."

Kenan didn’t move right away. His fingers squeezed yours just slightly, his grip steady, anchoring himself to this moment.

"Lead the way," he murmured.

…

You woke up to warmth.

Not the usual, oh, the blanket’s cozy kind of warmth—but the very specific kind that came from having a large, slightly inconvenient man wrapped around you like a human radiator.

Kenan’s arm was heavy around your waist, his chest pressed firmly against your back, his breath slow and even against the nape of your neck.

For a blissful, fleeting moment, you didn’t think.

You just existed in the warmth of him, in the steady way he held you, like even in sleep, he wasn’t willing to let go. It was grounding, disorienting, and honestly very distracting.

And then—

A knock at the door.

Your heart stopped.

"Hey, you up?" 

Jude’s voice. Groggy. Unmistakable.

Kenan went completely still behind you.

Your stomach plummeted at the exact same speed panic shot through your veins.

You twisted, shoving at his shoulder, whispering urgently, "Go hide. Now."

Kenan groaned into the pillow, voice rough with sleep and entirely unbothered. "What’s going on?"

"Closet! Hurry up!" you hissed, already untangling yourself from the sheets, frantically smoothing out the blankets.

He cursed under his breath before rolling—not gracefully, not remotely smoothly—off the bed, landing with a muffled thud that had you cringing. You barely had time to gawk at his ridiculous lack of stealth before he scrambled toward the closet, slipping inside just as the doorknob turned.

You flipped onto your back, throwing an innocent expression onto your face so forcefully it was probably suspiciousas Jude poked his head in.

He blinked. Then squinted. Then held up a plate.

"As a thank you for dragging me home," he announced, completely unprompted. "I brought breakfast."

You stared at him, still trying to calm your breathing. "Wow. How sweet of you."

Jude frowned, stepping inside, eyeing you like you’d been caught committing tax fraud. "Why are you being weird?"

From inside the closet came the softest possible shuffle. You ignored it. Barely.

"I’m not," you said far too quickly.

Jude narrowed his eyes, the skepticism radiating from him palpable. "You definitely are."

The silence stretched.

Kenan was absolutely in that closet grinning. You just knew it.

“Just a bit sleepy, still need to wake up a bit.” You said, not even sure if you could convince yourself. 

After a painfully long beat, Jude finally left. "Take your time. I’ll be in the living room."

The moment the door clicked shut, you collapsed against the pillows, exhaling sharply.

From inside the closet, Kenan’s voice came far too smug for someone who had nearly blown his own cover.

"I think he’s onto you, baby."

Your eyes snapped to the closet. "Shut up and get out before he comes back."

Kenan slipped out, grinning like he had won something. His hair was already an absolute mess, and as he tugged his hoodie back into place, he looked disgustingly pleased with himself.

"Still worth it," he muttered, far too casual for someone who had just been shoved into a closet like a scandalous love affair in a bad rom-com.

You glared, unimpressed. "You’re the worst."

Kenan leaned down, tilting his head just slightly, voice low and teasing. "Go cuddle with Antoine then."

Your mouth opened, ready to deliver something truly scathing, but before you could—

He pressed a quick kiss to your cheek and slipped toward the window.

…

The stadium buzzed with anticipation, the crisp night air thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and the more questionable aromas of stadium food—the kind that always smelled five-star but tasted like regret. Fans waved scarves and banners, their collective energy contagious, a living, breathing force of excitement.

You, Vini, and Julián had arrived early, settling into your usual seats in the VIP box, which offered a prime view of the pitch. Jude, Kenan, and Arda were warming up, all sharp movements and pre-match focus. Vini, still sidelined with his injury, lounged comfortably like a man who had fully embraced the perks of forced rest. Julián, meanwhile, had no real stake in this game—his Atlético Madrid loyalties firmly intact—but had shown up under the universal rule of football friendships: when your boys play, you support.

It should have felt normal—just another match, just another night watching your brother do what he did best. But from the moment the whistle blew, your gaze found him. Not Jude, not the movement of the game as a whole—but Kenan. 

You told yourself you were just watching the match, same as everyone else. But the way your eyes tracked Kenan’s every step made it painfully obvious that this had very little to do with football.

Watching him play like this—so completely in his element, entirely untouchable—felt a little like staring directly at the sun. You weren’t supposed to. It was bad for you. But even knowing that, you still couldn’t look away.

And then—Kenan broke loose.

A perfectly timed run, the ball practically glued to his foot, the entire pitch stretching open before him like a red carpet moment he had scripted himself. His acceleration was sharp, effortless, the kind of movement that made defenders rethink their entire career choices. One quick feint, a clean turn, a final ruthless touch—

And the ball was in the back of the net.

The stadium detonated.

Kenan’s name thundered through the stands, fans losing their collective minds, his teammates swarming him in celebration. Hands ruffled his hair, clapped his back, pulled him into the chaos—except Kenan barely acknowledged any of it.

Because Kenan wasn’t looking at them.

His gaze was already cutting through the noise, through the bodies, through the absolute carnage unfolding around him—until it found you.

With all the casual confidence of a man completely unbothered by the tens of thousands of people currently watching, he held your stare for just a second longer than necessary, before lifting his fingers to his lips, sending a small, knowing kiss in your direction.Not exaggerated. Not over-the-top. Just a little something to make sure you saw. A little something to make sure you knew.

And oh, you knew.

Your stomach twisted. Heat crept up your neck. You could feel yourself reacting before you could stop it, before you could school your expression into something resembling normal.

Too late.

Julián, seated next to you, hummed. Low, amused. Maybe even delighted.

And just like that the match was no longer your biggest concern.

…

The hallway outside the locker rooms was a chaotic mix of movement and noise, players filtering in and out, staff giving hurried instructions, and media figures darting around like they had somewhere important to be.

You, Julián, and Vini lingered near the entrance, waiting while the rest of the group finished changing before heading out for dinner.

Vini scrolled through his phone, completely uninterested in anything happening around him.

Julián, however? Julián was watching you.

You pretended not to notice, shifting your weight slightly, fixing your gaze on anything else—the floor, the ceiling, a scuffed mark on the wall that was suddenly very interesting.

But, of course, he wasn’t going to let you off the hook that easily.

"You know," he said casually, shoving his hands into his pockets, voice just low enough to be intentional. "You could just tell him."

Your body went rigid.

"Tell who what?" you asked, feigning confusion as if you didn’t immediately know where this was going.

Julián gave you a look. Not just any look—the kind of look that translated to: don’t even try it.

You swallowed, forcing a nonchalant shrug. "You’re being cryptic."

"And you’re being too obvious," he countered without missing a beat, eyebrow lifting in quiet amusement.

He wasn’t wrong.

Before you could even begin crafting some kind of defense, he sighed, the teasing edge in his voice softening.

"Listen," he said, quieter this time, like he was letting you in on something no one else was supposed to hear. "If you’re happy, you should just be honest."

You hesitated.

Julián wasn’t usually like this. He wasn’t the type to meddle, to pry, to offer unsolicited advice unless he genuinely meant it.

And the fact that he was saying this now—that he was looking at you like he had already figured out everything you were trying so hard to keep to yourself—made something tighten in your chest.

" Julián —"

"Jude will understand," he said simply.

And just like that, your heart stopped. That cracked open something you weren’t prepared to confront yet.

…

Post-match dinners were tradition—good food, good company, and Arda laughing at himself while everyone else berated his more questionable decisions.

But tonight, something felt... off.

And if you had to pinpoint why, it would be the warm weight of Kenan’s hand resting on your thigh under the table.

The restaurant buzzed with post-game energy—clattering plates, bursts of laughter, the scent of grilled meat and fresh bread.

For a while, everything felt normal.

You and Kenan were just sitting next to each other. It wasn’t unusual. No one had batted an eye when you slid into the seat beside him. There was no reason to think twice about the way his knee brushed against yours a little too often or how, at some point, his hand had found its way to your thigh. The contact was warm, steady, deliberate in a way that made it impossible to ignore, but subtle enough that it would have gone unnoticed by anyone not looking for it.

Jude wasn’t suspicious. At least, not yet.

You frowned as Kenan stole a fry from your plate, grinning at your outraged expression as he dodged your attempt to swat at his hand. 

Somewhere between that and the next bite, you had started laughing a little too much, leaning in a little too easily.

Then came the real mistake.

Without thinking, without even realizing what you were doing, you reached over and fed Kenan a piece of food from your plate.

He didn’t bat an eye, didn’t move to stop you. He just took the bite like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The moment your fork landed back on your plate, Jude’s eyes found yours.

His brows furrowed. His gaze narrowed, expression shifting as though his brain was struggling to make sense of something that wasn’t quite clicking.

You could almost see it happening in real time, the slow mental process of realization beginning to piece itself together.

And in a moment of sheer, blind panic, Kenan—quick as ever—turned to Arda and, with zero hesitation, lifted a forkful of food to his mouth.

And fed him a bite straight from his plate. With complete eye contact. A hand under his chin for dramatic effect. Like he had been planning it all along.

Arda, to his eternal credit, didn’t miss a beat.

He sighed dreamily, tilting his head slightly as if this was some grand romantic moment before murmuring, “Finally, some love and appreciation.”

The entire table erupted into laughter. And just like that—crisis, momentarily avoided.

Jude, momentarily thrown off the scent, shook his head and rolled his eyes. "God, you two are annoying."

You exhaled.

Kenan’s hand, still resting on your thigh, squeezed once before relaxing again.

Suddenly, with loud steps, Antoine walked in.

Late as usual, he carried himself with the kind of lazy confidence that came from always assuming he was welcome, flashing his signature smirk as he slid into the empty seat across from Kenan. His gaze flicked across the table, already amused, already scanning for his next source of entertainment, before landing directly on you.

"Did I miss anything?" he asked, tone casual, but his eyes sharp.

Vini barely looked up. "You missed Kenan and Arda having a moment."

Arda, ever the performer, turned toward Kenan, winking like they had been caught in a scandalous affair.

"I’d happily do it again."

Antoine’s brow lifted in mild curiosity. "Do I want to know?"

"No," Julián muttered before taking a sip of his drink.

Antoine smirked, leaning forward slightly.

And then—he turned to you.

"Good to see you again," he said, tone just smooth enough to be irritating. "Didn’t know you were coming tonight."

Your body reacted before your mind did, the subtle shift of tension tightening across your shoulders, the momentary hesitation before you answered. It was small, barely noticeable, but enough for Kenan’s fingers to flex against your thigh under the table.

Antoine, oblivious, continued.

"Been a while, huh?" His voice had that same practiced charm, the kind that could talk its way in and out of just about anything.

You forced a polite smile. "Not long enough."

Arda snorted into his drink.

Antoine, entirely unbothered, let his grin stretch wider. "Whatever you say, beautiful."

The words settled over the table like a misplaced knife, sharp, unnecessary, and completely unwelcome.

You felt Kenan’s grip on your thigh tightening—not possessively, not obviously, but enough. Enough that you knew this was the exact moment his patience expired.

Antoine, blissfully unaware of the impending disaster, leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh.

"You know, I was thinking—"

"You? Thinking?"

Kenan clearly wasn’t the only one who had lost his patience for Antoine.

Jude’s voice sliced through the conversation like a cold blade, stopping whatever Antoine had planned to say before it even left his mouth.

Antoine blinked, caught off guard.

The shift in Jude’s demeanor was immediate, the air around him suddenly weighted with something just serious enough to silence whatever playful deflection Antoine might have had planned.

"Clearly you can’t, or you’d remember she’s off-limits."

The weight of the words hung between them, unchallenged.

Antoine scoffed. "Oh, come on—"

"I don’t care." Jude’s voice never wavered.

Antoine stiffened, his usual lazy confidence faltering.

Arda, ever the hero, ever the breaker of tension, propped his chin on his hand and made a kissy face at Jude.

"Thank God there’s another Bellingham who isn’t off-limits."

It took a second, but then the entire table exploded into laughter, the relief of the tension being broken visible on all faces.

Even Jude, despite himself, exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

Antoine, thoroughly humiliated, sank into his seat.

Kenan reached for his drink, finally looking at peace.

And you?

You just exhaled, yet the weight on your shoulders hadn’t fully dissolved yet. 

...

The night air had a crisp edge to it, the kind that made everything feel a little more defined, a little more present. The streets had quieted, save for the occasional burst of laughter from passing groups and the distant hum of traffic rolling through the city. A leftover energy from the match still clung to the air, lingering in the spaces between streetlights and the faint glow of shop windows.

Jude had just left for some girl’s place, tossing you a lazy wave over his shoulder before sliding into the backseat of a taxi, completely unaware of what—or rather, who—he was leaving behind.

Now, it was just you and Kenan.

The two of you walked in sync, footsteps falling into an easy rhythm against the pavement, the kind of silent coordination that came naturally when you spent enough time around someone. Neither of you spoke for a while, but the quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. It was settled, familiar, charged in a way that didn’t require words.

Kenan was the first to break the silence.

“You know,” he mused, his hands shoved in his pockets, his voice carrying that usual casualness, though there was something softer beneath it, something more careful. “I realized something tonight.”

You glanced at him, raising a brow. “And what’s that?”

He tilted his head slightly, considering. “I don’t actually know how you see the world.”

The comment made you blink, caught off guard. “What?”

Kenan smirked, but it wasn’t teasing—not in the way he usually was. “I know how you react. I know how you argue. I know the way your mind works when you’re scheming something, the way you roll your eyes when you think someone’s being an idiot. But I don’t know what you dream about. I don’t know what you think about when it’s just you and your own thoughts.”

His words sent something warm curling through your chest, something that felt an awful lot like being seen in a way you weren’t sure you were ready for.

You narrowed your eyes, lips twitching. “That’s already quite the character study. What else is left?”

Kenan’s grin widened. “That you’re stubborn, that you were a menace growing up, and that you have god-awful taste in movies.”

You gasped, scandalized. “First of all, I do not have god-awful taste in movies—”

Kenan hummed, feigning deep thought. “You like that one rom-com with the guy who—”

“It’s a cinematic masterpiece, and you will respect it,” you shot back, jabbing a finger at his chest.

His laugh was warm, deep, cutting through the cool night like a melody you’d heard before and wanted to hear again.

But then, after a beat, his voice softened. “I mean it,” he said, quieter now. “Tell me about you.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to, but because no one ever really asked. Your entire life had existed in orbit around someone else’s story, in the shadow of football pitches and expectations, always introduced as Jude’s sister before being anything else.

But standing here, under the dim glow of streetlights, Kenan wasn’t looking at you like someone else’s sister.

He was looking at you. Like he wanted to know. Like he wanted to understand who you were beyond the spaces you filled for other people.

So, you told him.

About your dreams, your ambitions, the things you wanted that had nothing to do with football or being tethered to a world you hadn’t exactly chosen. About how you had always been restless, always searching for something that felt just out of reach, never quite sure what it was supposed to be. About the weight of constantly being seen as an extension of someone else instead of just you.

And Kenan listened.

Not in the way most people did, waiting for their turn to speak, but fully, completely. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t tease, didn’t try to fix anything. He just walked beside you, nodding now and then, his expression unreadable but focused, present, engaged.

Then, when you finally ran out of words, when you had spilled more than you had planned to, he stopped walking.

You turned to face him, and his gaze didn’t waver.

There was something warm in his eyes, something deliberate, something that made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t sure you could name.

“I don’t want to keep sneaking around,” he said, straightforward, unwavering.

Your breath caught. The easiest response would have been to joke, to throw back something sarcastic, something that made this feel less serious than it was.

But you couldn’t. Not this time.

Instead, your voice came out quieter than expected. “Me neither.”

Kenan exhaled, like he had been holding onto that breath for too long.

He stepped closer, slow and measured, his presence surrounding you in a way that made the rest of the world fade into background noise. “We’ll tell him,” he murmured. “After this weekend.”

You hesitated—not because you weren’t sure, but because—

“Jude’s going to kill you,” you whispered, the ghost of a smile playing at your lips.

Kenan tilted his head, grin forming. “Think he’ll make it quick?”

You shook your head, laughing softly. “Probably not.”

“Damn,” he sighed, like he was genuinely considering the odds. “Guess we better make the most of it while I still have my limbs.”

…

The morning unfolded slowly, wrapped in that golden kind of stillness that came after a night where nothing was rushed, nothing was hidden, and nothing felt like a mistake.

You stirred awake gradually, the soft glow of daylight stretching through the curtains, dusting the room in muted warmth. The duvet was tangled around your legs, the air comfortably heavy, and Kenan’s arm draped over your waist, solid and warm, his grip loose but unwavering.

For a moment, you didn’t move.

Still caught in the haze between sleep and wakefulness, your mind felt foggy, your body relaxed, completely enveloped in the weight of him against your back. His breath was slow and steady, lips barely grazing your bare shoulder, the steady rise and fall of his chest in perfect rhythm with yours.

There was something easy about it. Something natural, like neither of you needed to rush back into reality just yet.

Like the rest of the world could wait.

Kenan stirred behind you, inhaling deeply as he shifted, his fingers pressing lightly against your stomach before relaxing again—like his body refused to let go, even in sleep.

Then, soft and half-mumbled against your skin, a voice still thick with sleep—

“Mmm… morning, baby.”

You turned your head slightly, catching the way his lashes fluttered against his cheekbones, the drowsy heaviness still clinging to his green eyes, barely open, barely awake.

“Morning,” you murmured, voice quieter than intended.

Kenan exhaled a slow, contented sigh before burying his face into the crook of your neck, his forehead pressing against your shoulder for just a moment, as if delaying the inevitable need to get up.

Neither of you moved for a while, tangled in the sheets, limbs draped over each other in a way that didn’t feel stolen or temporary anymore—just right. The silence was filled with soft sighs, half-hearted murmurs about starting the day, Kenan groaning dramatically every time you even suggested getting up.

It took twenty more minutes of coaxing, a promise of coffee, and an absurd amount of effort to finally untangle yourself from him.

Which somehow led to Kenan, standing in your kitchen, sleeves pushed up lazily, completely in your space—eerily familiar to the first time you two met.

"You just gonna stand there and look pretty, or are you actually going to help?" you teased, casting him a glance over your shoulder as you reached for the pan.

Kenan smirked, arms crossed over his chest, the definition of amused. “I thought I was the guest here.”

You rolled your eyes. “I must have missed the part where guests show up like stray cats and never leave.”

Kenan snickered, stepping closer, his presence pressing against yours without even touching you.

"Can’t help it," he muttered, reaching past you to grab a knife from the counter, his hand grazing yours in the process.

Your breath hitched.

It was such a small thing—barely even a touch. But the air between you shifted, thickened, like neither of you quite knew how to handle it now that there were no rules left to break.

Kenan didn’t move away.

He tilted his head slightly, studying you, something soft and unreadable flickering behind his expression.

“I like this.”

You blinked. “Like what?”

He glanced around—at you, at the kitchen, at the quiet ease of the morning—before a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“This,” he murmured. “Mornings with you.”

…

By noon, Kenan was lacing up his shoes, bag slung over his shoulder, the usual ease in his movements feeling just a little more forced. Neither of you had said it out loud, but the reluctance hung between you, stretching out the seconds, making something as routine as leaving for training feel heavier than it should.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed, watching him stall in the smallest ways—adjusting his bag, running a hand through his hair, double-checking his phone. It wasn’t subtle, and you weren’t about to call him out for it, because truthfully, you didn’t want him to go either.

His hand reached for the door handle, fingers grazing the cool metal, but instead of pushing it open, he hesitated. The pause wasn’t long, but it was enough.

He turned back.

His gaze settled on you, lingering for a beat longer than necessary, something unreadable in his expression. Without a word, he stepped forward, his fingers curling lightly under your jaw, thumb tracing absently along your cheekbone.

He slowly leaned in, lips warm against yours, moving with easy confidence, unhurried but unwilling to be cut short. His palm moved to your hips, pressing lightly against, fingers flexing like he wanted to pull you closer but knew he shouldn’t.

When he pulled back, his gaze flickered over your face, taking in every detail before a small, quiet smirk ghosted across his lips.

"You make it really hard to leave," he murmured.

A quiet exhale slipped past your lips. "Then don’t."

Kenan let out a soft laugh, more resigned than amused, like he knew exactly how impossible that suggestion was. His fingers lingered against your skin for just a second longer before he pressed a final kiss to your forehead.

Neither of you noticed the figure standing just a few feet away.

Neither of you caught the subtle shift in Kenneth’s expression, the way his arms crossed over his chest, gaze locked onto you both with an undeniable edge of amusement.

But when he saw Kenan kiss you—

Something clicked.

His lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.

And just like that—

A plan was beginning to form.

…

Vini Jr’s birthday getaway was supposed to be a break—one night away from the noise, the obligations, the endless cycle of training and matches. Just twenty-four hours to indulge, unwind, and embrace the illusion that their schedules weren’t already mapped out for months in advance.

And for the first few hours, that’s exactly what it was.

The cabin was absurdly over-the-top, the kind of place that looked like it belonged in a luxury travel magazine. Nestled deep in the countryside with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a valley, it had everything—an infinity pool, a sauna, a hot tub, and a very charming fire pit outside. Every detail had been planned with precision, a testament to the fact that Vini took his birthdays far too seriously.

It was meant to be a night of doing absolutely nothing except lounging around, eating too much. It was one of those nights that felt effortless, where nothing needed to be said aloud because the comfort of familiarity spoke for itself. The kind of night where everything felt easy—like nothing could go wrong.

And then, Vini Jr—sentimental by nature, twice as bad when exhausted and warm from whiskey—sighed, stretching his legs toward the fire.

“This group means a lot to me,” he murmured, gaze flickering across the room before settling on the flames. “You guys are like my family.”

There were a few small nods of agreement.

Julián, reclining comfortably in an armchair, gave a lazy smile. “Yeah. Feels that way, doesn’t it?”

Arda, sprawled across half the couch with a blanket tangled around his legs, let out a sleepy chuckle. “If we’re family, does that mean I get to be the favorite child?”

“No,” Julián said flatly.

The laughter was soft, easy, unforced—

Until Antoine, sitting just slightly apart from the group, his usual smirk in place, twirling his whiskey glass idly between his fingers, decided to ruin it.

"You’d be surprised how close some people are."

The shift was instant, subtle but undeniable—like the air had dropped a degree.

Jude, who had been half-drowsy, half-listening, barely reacted at first, brows knitting slightly as he processed the words, turning them over in his mind.

“What?” he asked, tone absentminded, not yet realizing he had just stepped into a landmine.

Antoine leaned forward, setting his glass down with slow, deliberate ease, his gaze flicking toward you, then Kenan, then back again.

“Oh, nothing,” he mused, stretching out in his seat. “Just thinking about how you never really know what’s going on right under your nose.”

Your stomach plummeted.

Jude’s expression barely flickered, but the tension in his shoulders shifted, subtle but unmistakable, a sign that he had just caught up to the conversation a second too late.

Vini Jr must have sensed it too, because his voice cut through the air, sharp and warning.

"Antoine."

But Antoine, who had an unsettling grin plastered on his face, wasn’t finished.

“I meant to come apologize after dinner the other night,” he continued, voice mocking, syrupy-slow, words laced with the kind of satisfaction that made your stomach churn.

And then, with a casual, effortless cruelty—

"But then I saw Kenan making out with your sister."

Silence.

Like the room itself had just swallowed all the air.

Jude didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t even react.

Just sat perfectly still, eyes locked onto nothing in particular, face so unreadable it almost looked blank.

Like his brain had short-circuited, too stuck between disbelief and fury to process anything at all.

When he looked up his eyes met yours. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked like it might crack under the pressure. 

"Tell me he's lying."

His voice was quiet, low—but lethal.

A final chance.

A last, desperate lifeline—one last opportunity to prove that Antoine was just being a smug, conniving bastard.

But you had nothing to give him.

"Jude, I—” You faltered, voice paper-thin, cracking under the weight of what was coming. “There… might be something going on.”

Another silence.

But this one was worse.

Thicker.

Final.

Like the ground itself had just cracked open beneath your feet.

Jude’s expression didn’t shift. Didn’t change. Didn’t flicker. It was still terrifyingly blank.

"Oh, come on, Jude," Arda groaned, breaking the tension like he hadn’t just stepped into the eye of a hurricane.“Don’t be mad, they’re actually kinda cute.”

A ripple of uneasy laughter skated across the room.

Vini Jr sat up, clearing his throat. “Kenan’s a good guy, man. You know that.”

Jude’s head snapped so fast you almost thought he’d get whiplash. His gaze darted from Arda to Vini Jr to Julián, like he was waiting for someone—anyone—to tell him he wasn’t crazy.

That he had every right to feel betrayed.

That this was completely, utterly wrong.

But no one did.

His voice came out sharp, brittle at the edges. "So, what? You’re all just fine with this?”

Julián hesitated before exhaling heavily. “Well… yeah?”

Jude blinked. Slowly.

Like he was waiting for the universe to right itself.

It didn’t.

Arda, shooting Kenan an empathic look, sighed. “I mean, it’s not like they killed someone, Jude.”

"That’s not the point!" Jude’s voice rose suddenly, snapping with a rough edge. “I had one rule. Just one.”

The words hit you square in the chest, knocking the breath out of you.

And then—

Something shifted in his face.

Like a much, much worse realization had just landed.

His jaw locked, eyes narrowing.

"Wait."

The single word was a trigger, a warning, a countdown to something that was about to explode.

His gaze flickered across the room. “Did you guys already know?”

Silence.

And then—

Julián sighed. “I mean…”

Arda awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. “I might have figured it out.”

Vini Jr, ever the most unbothered, hummed. “I had my suspicions.”

Jude inhaled sharply.

"You��" He cut himself off, jaw tightening like he was physically forcing himself to stay composed.

And then—

He let out a sharp, humorless laugh.

Bitter. Cold.

"Unbelievable."

His gaze snapped back to Kenan, something dark flashing through it.

"You. You knew how I felt about this. About my teammates—my friends—going near her."

Kenan’s jaw was tight, his entire body tense, rigid.

"I didn’t plan for this to happen," he said, evenly, carefully.

“So?” Jude scoffed. "That makes it better?"

Kenan hesitated. Then, softly, quietly—

“No. It doesn’t.”

Jude let out a sharp, unsteady breath, pushing up from his seat so fast that the blanket draped over his lap slipped to the floor.

“I need to clear my head.”

And just like that—he walked out.

The room stayed frozen, the embers in the fireplace popping softly, the only sound breaking the crushing weight of his absence.

Kenan didn’t move.

Didn’t look at anyone.

Just sat there, hands clasped in front of him, staring at the door Jude had disappeared through like he was already mourning something he couldn’t bring back.

Finally he exhaled. “I should go.”

“No.” Vini’s voice was firm.

But Kenan just shook his head, already rising to his feet.

“He’s my friend,” he said simply, voice quieter now, the tension in his body starting to unwind into something that looked an awful lot like regret.

“And I crossed a line. I don’t want to stay here and make it worse.”

Vini sighed, dragging a hand down his face.

Then—his eyes flickered to Antoine, and his entire expression changed.

“You, however?” His tone turned sharp, unforgiving. “You can get the hell out.”

Antoine scoffed. “Oh, come on—”

“I mean it,” Vini snapped, patience gone. “You don’t get to sit here and act like this wasn’t a game to you. You wanted to cause damage—and you did."

Antoine rolled his eyes, standing up and grabbing his jacket.

And then, with one last lingering glance at you and Kenan—

He was gone.

The silence around the now nearly burned-out fire was deafening. 

Arda exhaled. “Well, that could’ve gone better.”

Julián gave you and Kenan a sympathetic look. “For what it’s worth, we never thought it was wrong. Just… complicated.”

Vini clapped Kenan on the shoulder. “Jude will come around. He just needs time.”

Kenan didn’t say anything.

Just nodded, his jaw tight, gaze distant.

Then—he turned to you, eyes softening for just a second.

“I’ll pack my bag.”

And with that, he was gone too.

…

The warmth of the day had long faded, leaving behind a crisp chill that clung to your skin, but you barely felt it.

You sat on the porch steps, arms wrapped around yourself, staring out at the darkness beyond the trees, replaying every second of what had happened inside.

The way Jude had looked at you—like he didn’t recognize you.

Your stomach twisted painfully. You and Kenan had agreed—you would tell Jude together, do it the right way. But now, the choice had been ripped from you. Antoine had done it for you, cruelly, deliberately, stripping you of any control. Instead of sitting Jude down, instead of explaining it carefully, you had been exposed—caught like some dirty little secret.

Now, it was out in the open. And everything felt ruined.

The door creaked open behind you. Footsteps on the wooden planks.

You didn’t turn. Didn’t need to.

Kenan settled beside you, close enough that you could feel his warmth without touching. For weeks, he had made you feel safe. But tonight, there was no safety. No reassurance. Just the wreckage of what you had built.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then—

“I should have told him right away,” Kenan murmured.

You swallowed hard. “We both should have.”

Kenan exhaled sharply. “I knew exactly how this would go. I knew how he’d react, and still—I let myself believe it would be fine.”

His gaze was locked on the horizon, jaw clenched, hands tightening into fists. “Maybe Antoine did it to be an ass, but it doesn’t change the fact that I let this happen. That I knew this could ruin things, and I…” He inhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head.

His voice broke slightly.

And you knew—he wasn’t just talking about Jude.

Kenan exhaled, finally turning his head to look at you.

And your stomach dropped.

Because for the first time in weeks, he looked conflicted. Not just guilty. Not just sorry. But like he was standing on the edge of something and deciding whether to jump—or walk away.

“I love you.”

Soft. Barely a whisper. But it hit you like a punch to the gut.

Because this wasn’t how he was supposed to say it. Not like this. Not in the quiet of the aftermath, when everything was already slipping away.

Your breath hitched, vision blurring slightly, but you forced yourself to swallow past the lump in your throat. If this was the end—if you had to let him go—then at least he would know

You reached out, fingers trembling slightly as you cupped his face, memorizing the warmth of his skin.

“I love you too.”

Kenan exhaled, ragged, forehead pressing against yours. His hands cradled the back of your neck like he couldn’t quite believe what you had just said.

For a few stolen seconds, neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed. Just sat there, foreheads touching, eyes closed, existing in the space of what could have been.

Then Kenan pulled back, and you felt it.

“I don’t want you to pick between me or your family,” he murmured.

Your chest caved in on itself. “Don’t say that.”

Kenan let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Come on, baby.”

He called you that one last time, like he knew he wouldn’t be saying it again. His thumb brushed your cheek, one final touch, like he was committing the moment to memory.

“You should stay.”

Your stomach plummeted.

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head, tears well and truly spilling over now.

Kenan smiled, but it was small, sad, something entirely different from the ones he used to give you. “You know I’m right.”

You bit your lip, shaking your head, desperate. “I don’t care.”

Kenan exhaled, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering just long enough for it to hurt.

“You do,” he murmured against your skin.

And that was the worst part—because he was right.

Kenan had known what this would cost before you did. And that was why he was doing what you couldn’t bring yourself to do, why he was making the choice you refused to face.

A lump formed in your throat. “This isn’t fair.”

Kenan’s smile barely touched his lips. “Nothing about this was ever fair.”

You shut your eyes, but it didn’t stop the warmth trailing down your cheek. Kenan caught the tear with his thumb, unbearably gentle, as if this moment wasn’t already unraveling you.

And then—he stepped back.

And you knew.

This was it.

The moment he walked away.

Kenan adjusted his bag, glancing at you one last time before slipping his hands into his pockets and making his way down the steps. His shoulders were tense, his pace unhurried, but he didn’t look back.

And if you had glanced up, just for a second, you would have seen the faint glow of light filtering through the open window above the porch.

Would have seen Jude lying awake in bed, unmoving, his expression unreadable.

He had heard every word.

…

The stadium pulsed with energy—chants, stomping, the distant crackle of flares. The air smelled of freshly cut grass, laced with smoke drifting from the passionate sections of the crowd.

To most, this was just another match. Another ninety minutes under the floodlights.

For you, it was something else.

The first game since everything had fallen apart. Since Kenan walked away. Since you let him.

You sat stiffly in the private box, wedged between Vini Jr. and Julián, a cup of cold coffee cradled between your hands. Your eyes weren’t on the game.

They were on him.

Kenan stood on the pitch, clad in his Real Madrid kit, shoulders squared. To the world, he looked composed. You knew better. His jaw was too tight, his shoulders held tension that shouldn’t be there.

His gaze swept the stands until it found you. A fraction of hesitation. A flicker of something before he forced himself to turn away.

Julián muttered, “You’re staring.”

You blinked. “Was not.”

“Right,” he drawled. “And I’m a Barcelona fan.”

Jude hadn’t really spoken to you since that night. He had seen it—the way you barely ate, stayed in your room too long, weren’t yourself. Watching you now, staring at Kenan like you had already lost—he knew.

And on the pitch, it showed.

Kenan was off. His passes lacked precision, his movement hesitated. Jude, too. He wasn’t playing poorly, but you saw the difference.

Vini exhaled. “This isn’t them.”

You weren’t just watching two footballers struggle. You were watching two boys trying to push through something bigger than the game. And failing.

…

Halftime.

Kenan barely made it three steps into the tunnel before a hand gripped his arm, pulling him to a stop. His entire body tensed, bracing instinctively for a confrontation, expecting a sharp word, maybe even another shove.

But when he turned and met Jude’s gaze, something in him stilled.

Because Jude didn’t look angry.

He didn’t look like he was about to start another fight, didn’t look like he was holding onto resentment or betrayal.

He just looked… tired.

Kenan swallowed, exhaling slowly as Jude crossed his arms, studying him like he was weighing something in his head.

"You care about her."

It wasn’t a question.

Kenan’s jaw clenched, but he nodded without hesitation.

"I do."

Jude didn’t blink. His expression remained unreadable, sharp but not hostile, as if he was searching for any sign of doubt, any hesitation, anything that would confirm his worst fears.

"No, I mean, you really care about her."

Kenan’s chest tightened, his pulse drumming against his ribs.

But still, there was no pause when he spoke.

"More than anything."

Jude let out a long breath, dragging a hand down his face like this realization had just knocked the wind out of him.

"I was an idiot," he muttered, shaking his head. "I should’ve known earlier. She’s been miserable all week. So have I. And so have you."

Kenan didn’t answer.

Because there was nothing to say.

Jude sighed again, quieter this time, voice losing its edge.

"Listen to me," he said, meeting Kenan’s eyes with a look that left no room for misinterpretation. "If you ever mess this up—if you ever hurt her—" he paused, letting the weight of it settle, "you are done for."

Kenan nodded immediately. "I won’t."

Jude held his gaze for another long moment, assessing, deciding.

Then, finally, finally, he nodded.

"Then you have my blessing."

The words hit harder than Kenan expected.

His shoulders relaxed instantly, the tension he had been carrying for weeks lifting all at once, and for the first time in days, he could actually breathe.

The relief was overwhelming—so much so that before he could even think, before he could talk himself out of it—

He pulled Jude into a hug.

Jude stiffened immediately.

Then—he sighed. Loud. Dramatic. "Alright, alright, enough of this."

Kenan grinned, pulling back, the tightness in his chest easing completely.

Jude gave him a long-suffering look before muttering, half amused, half resigned—

"Kind of glad it’s you if it has to be any of my mates." A pause. "Still kinda weird, though."

Kenan laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in weeks.

And just like that, the weight of everything else—the tension, the guilt, the uncertainty—faded into the background.

Jude clapped him on the shoulder, nodding toward the tunnel. "Go play like yourself."

…

Where the first half had been marked by hesitation, the second half ignited with purpose. The tension that had clouded the match lifted, replaced by a sharp, relentless drive. And at the center of it all—Kenan.

From the moment the whistle blew, he was everywhere. Every pass landed with precision, every touch carried confidence, every movement had the unmistakable ease of a player who had just remembered exactly who he was. It was as if something inside him had settled, like the weight of the past few weeks had finally lifted.

Jude’s words in the tunnel had done more than clear the air. They had set him free.

Kenan played like a man with nothing to hold him back, his rhythm returning in full force. His movements were sharp, impossible to predict, his speed cutting through defenders before they even knew what was happening. The energy was infectious—his teammates fed off it, the crowd roared for it, the entire game shifted because of it.

Two minutes left on the clock. One last counterattack.

The stadium held its breath as Kenan surged forward, the ball at his feet, his body moving with instinctive precision. The defenders scrambled to stop him, but he was faster, sharper, weaving past them with practiced ease.

The goal was right there.

He didn’t hesitate.

One clean, powerful strike—

The ball sailed past the keeper.

And hit the back of the net.

Kenan barely had time to react before his teammates crashed into him, grabbing at his jersey, shaking him, shouting in pure elation. The weight of the game, of the past few weeks, of everything—gone in an instant.

And you?

You didn’t even realize you had jumped to your feet, hands pressed over your mouth, laughter spilling out in pure, unfiltered exhilaration. Your heart was pounding, the adrenaline coursing through you as you stared down at the pitch, at him.

Kenan turned, still surrounded by his teammates, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. But he wasn’t looking at them. He was looking for you.

And the second his gaze found yours, the rest of the world fell away.

His hands lifted, his fingers shaping a heart.

Right at you.

Your breath hitched, something flipping violently in your stomach, the moment pulling so tight you could feel it in your bones.

A hundred thoughts flashed through your mind. Jude. What if he saw? What if—

But then Jude jogged over to Kenan and patted him on the back, before tilting his head up to the box—

And smiling at you.

The tightness in your chest unraveled, the last few weeks dissolving in an instant.

Jude was telling you, without words, without spectacle, in the quietest, most Jude way possible that everything was okay.

The final whistle blew, Real’s victory confirmed, and the stadium exploded into celebration.

Your feet carried you down the stands before you could talk yourself out of it, weaving through the crowd, pushing past security, slipping through the barriers until your shoes hit the pitch.

The world around you was a blur of flashing cameras, roaring fans, falling confetti—

None of it mattered. You only saw one thing.

Kenan.

Still in the center of the pitch, still wrapped in the aftermath of victory—teammates cheering, hands clapping against his back, voices shouting over each other in celebration.

But Kenan wasn’t listening.

His eyes were searching.

And the second he saw you, everything else became secondary.

He moved through the crowd with quiet determination, each stride measured, gaze fixed on you like there was nowhere else he was supposed to be. There was no hesitation, no doubt—just certainty.

The second he reached you, his hands found your waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of your jacket, warm and steady. His forehead brushed against yours, the ghost of a breath passing between you, his grip anchoring you to him like he had no intention of letting go.

And then—his lips were on yours.

There was nothing tentative about it, no room for second-guessing.

The way he kissed you was deliberate, like he had been craving this moment long enough and wasn’t about to waste it. He tasted like adrenaline and triumph, his fingers tightening against you as though to make sure you were really there.

The stadium noise melted into something distant, unimportant. It was just the two of you, caught in the heady mix of exhaustion, relief, and something deeper—something neither of you could deny anymore.

Still breathless, you pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, the flicker of a smile ghosting across his lips.

“So, since we’re all feeling sentimental, should I kiss you too?” Arda stood a few steps away, grinning as he clapped Jude on the shoulder, eyes alight with mischief.

Jude recoiled instantly, baffled. “Absolutely not.”

Arda clutched his chest in exaggerated offense. “Wow. Rejected just like that. No hesitation.”

Laughter rippled through the team, light and easy, the weight of the last few weeks dissolving into something less complicated.

Jude exhaled, shaking his head.

But this time he was smiling.

For real.

[zannilove]

Savoring the Moment

Word count — 1,505 Character(s): Zayne x non-descipt!reader Warnings: None Note: No note. Just enjoy, if you want^^

It’s a quiet evening in Zayne’s apartment, the soft hum of the city below blending with the faint glow of streetlights streaming through the window. You have the key, the one he entrusted to you months ago, and today marks your first anniversary. Your plan was simple but meaningful: surprise him with his favorite meal, a little gesture to show how much he means to you.

Your heart races as you unlock the door, the anticipation buzzing through your veins. Your palms feel slightly clammy, and you rub them against your jeans in an attempt to steady yourself. The apartment smells faintly of him; the subtle mix of cologne, the faint trace of his aftershave, the kind of scent you’ve grown to recognize even after just a few months. You smile to yourself, momentarily forgetting the task at hand. But then, reality sinks in. You head straight for the kitchen, determined to make this surprise work.

The excitement of the idea gives way to nerves as you start unpacking the ingredients. You had spent hours planning, watching cooking tutorials, and imagining how it would go, how it would impress him, how you’d surprise him with a perfect meal. But now that you’re standing there, apron on, everything feels foreign and overwhelming. The knife feels too big in your hand, the handle awkward and slippery as you try to steady your grip. The stove flickers to life, its steady blue flame suddenly feeling like an unpredictable force you must tame. Your fingers tremble as you start pulling things out, trying to recall the steps, but the instructions blur in your mind.

The pasta. You toss it in, praying that you remember the right amount of water. But then it’s too late. You’re left staring at soggy, overcooked noodles that won’t quite break apart. Panic sets in, your chest tightening as you look down at the mess you’ve made. You try to salvage the sauce, but it’s a thick, clumpy mess that sticks to the spoon in all the wrong ways. You stir furiously, your heart pounding louder than the bubbling pot, but nothing helps. The smell of burnt garlic mixed with something else. It makes you cringe.

You pause, breathing in shallowly. The weight of the evening, the nerves, the thought that you may have completely messed this up, settles on your shoulders. This was supposed to be something sweet, something to show him how much he means to you, and here you are, standing in a disaster of your own making.

And then you hear the door. The sound of keys in the lock. Zayne’s voice, low and steady, echoes from the entryway. You freeze, panic rising in your throat. He’s home. You can’t stop it now. The mess, the disaster! You’ve failed before he even steps foot in the kitchen.

But then you hear his footsteps, and you’re not ready for the soft, teasing note in his voice when he steps inside. “You were cooking dinner for us?” he says, and you almost want to hide from the gentle amusement in his tone.

Turning, you force a smile, trying to mask the embarrassment that floods you. “I... I tried?” you say, lifting your hands in mock surrender. “Guess I’m not cut out for this after all.”

Zayne chuckles, his tired eyes scanning the kitchen before settling on you. There’s no anger, no disappointment, just a quiet amusement that somehow puts you at ease. His voice is gentle but teasing. “Lucky for you, I’m great at saving disasters,” he says, stepping forward and placing a hand on your shoulder with a playful smile. “Let me help.���

You can’t help but laugh, the tension slowly unwinding as he moves past you to take charge. Even after the long day he's had, he’s still so calm, so effortlessly reassuring. Without missing a beat, Zayne takes over with the ease of someone who’s spent countless hours in a high-pressure environment, his hands moving with purpose and precision. The calm efficiency with which he works is almost surgical, and you can’t help but watch in awe as he brings the dish back to life. His movements are smooth and practiced, like he’s in control of every detail, a stark contrast to your earlier frantic attempts.

He chuckles softly as he adjusts the heat on the sauce, adding a few more ingredients with the same precision he might use to make a life-saving decision in the operating room. You can see the way his mind works, focused, deliberate, and yet completely in tune with the moment. As the sauce begins to simmer and the fragrance of the meal starts to fill the room, you realize he’s transformed the disaster into something that actually smells delicious.

As he works, you lean against the counter, feeling the shift in the air. The tension of the day seems to melt away from him in your presence, his shoulders visibly relaxing. There’s a grace in his movements, one that extends beyond the operating room, a quiet confidence that makes everything he does seem effortless. It draws you in closer, not just to him, but to the calm, steady rhythm that he’s created around you both. His presence fills the space, and you feel at home here, in his space, with him.

He notices your gaze, offering a teasing smile before he turns back to the task at hand. "You know," he says, his voice low and warm, "if you want, I could teach you how to chop vegetables properly. It's kind of like... surgical precision." He winks, his smile playful but gentle.

You raise an eyebrow. "Surgical precision, huh?"

"Exactly." He chuckles, moving closer to you with a quiet confidence. "Here, let me show you." He reaches for the knife, gently placing it in your hand, his fingers brushing against yours. The simple touch sends a ripple of warmth through you.

"Okay, first things first," Zayne says, his voice a soothing guide. "You want to grip the knife like this… firm, but not too tight. And when you slice, think of it like you’re cutting through layers. No pressure, just let the knife glide."

He stands behind you, his body close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. His hands guide yours, adjusting your grip, showing you the right angle. His breath is warm against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. The steady weight of his presence grounds you, his voice a gentle current guiding your movements as the blade glides through the vegetables. Your heartbeat quickens, not from nerves this time, but from the intoxicating closeness of him. You focus on the sound of the knife against the cutting board, and the way Zayne’s hands guide yours with such care.

"Better," he murmurs, his tone full of approval. "You’ve got it now." His praise is soft, like it’s meant just for you, and you feel a swell of pride, not just from the task but from the way he’s looking at you. His eyes are warm, not just with affection but with something deeper, something that makes your chest tighten in the best way.

When the vegetables are chopped, Zayne moves to the stove with effortless grace, his focus shifting back to the meal. The way he carries himself is magnetic, confident but never boastful. As he plates the food, his movements are measured, the dish transforming into something that now looks as good as it smells. He sets the plate down in front of you, his gaze softening as he looks at the finished meal. “Not bad for a surprise,” he says with a grin, a trace of pride in his voice.

You meet his gaze, the warmth in your chest growing as you take the plate. There’s something about this moment, the way he’s not just fixing dinner but fixing the little things that matter, that makes you feel even closer to him. You chuckle; your heart full as you sit at the small dining table. "I think you might have just saved my cooking career," you tease.

The conversation flows easily, and you find yourself relaxing into the evening, the pressure of the day slipping away. As you talk, his gaze never strays far from you. He listens to you like nothing else matters, like your words are the most important thing in the room. It’s a quiet intimacy, one that doesn’t need grand gestures to be felt.

Later, as the plates are cleared and the evening winds down, Zayne’s touch lingers on your skin. He’s beside you, his presence so close, but in that space between words, there’s a deeper connection that speaks louder than anything either of you could say.

Zayne brushes a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering against your skin for just a moment too long. His touch is soft, gentle, and when he looks at you, his expression is filled with something that makes your heart skip a beat. “Thank you for tonight," he says, his voice trailing off slightly, like there's more he wants to say but decides against it.

You smile, your gaze softening as you reach for him, letting the moment stretch out. In that quiet, intimate space, you both know that this is more than just a meal or an anniversary, it’s the connection you’ve built, the unspoken understanding between you, and the way Zayne makes you feel like you’re the most important person in the world.

[rafecamerons-national-anthem]

COOKING NIGHT-DREW STARKEY

𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪 Drew and Y/N try to cook together, but it turns into a hilarious mess.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

It was supposed to be a simple, romantic evening.

Drew Starkey had the brilliant idea of skipping takeout for once and cooking dinner together with Y/N. She had jokingly complained the week before about their excessive reliance on Uber Eats, so Drew decided it was time to prove they could do something more domestic.

“Think about it,” he said that morning as they lay in bed. “Good food, great wine, and the satisfaction of making something with our own hands. It’ll be fun!”

Y/N eyed him skeptically. “Do you even know where the pots and pans are?”

“Of course I do!” he retorted, feigning offense. “They are somewhere in the kitchen.”

By late afternoon, they were in the kitchen armed with ingredients for a homemade pasta recipe Drew had found online. He had watched half a cooking tutorial on YouTube earlier and felt ready to tackle the task. Y/N, ever the realist, had a backup plan: frozen pizza in the freezer, just in case.

The first sign of trouble came early.

“Do we really need this much flour?” Y/N asked, frowning as Drew poured what looked like half the bag onto the counter.

“That’s what it said in the video!” Drew replied confidently, rolling up his sleeves.

Y/N glanced at his phone, where the recipe was still open. “Drew, it says two cups of flour. You just dumped, like, five.”

Drew paused, his hands coated in the white powder. “...Well, it’s too late now. We’ll just make extra pasta. More is better, right?”

Y/N shook her head, laughing, but didn’t argue.

Things quickly escalated.

Drew was tasked with kneading the dough, but his enthusiasm for the task sent small clouds of flour into the air. Y/N stood back, arms crossed, watching as he wrestled with the sticky, uneven lump on the counter.

“Is it supposed to look like that?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Totally,” Drew said, though the dough clung to his fingers like glue. “This is exactly how Gordon Ramsay does it.”

She couldn’t suppress a laugh. “Sure it is.”

By the time they had something resembling pasta dough, the kitchen looked like a tornado had swept through. There was flour on the counters, on the floor, and somehow on Drew’s forehead.

“Okay,” Y/N said, clapping her hands together. “You handle the pasta; I’ll work on the sauce. How hard can it be?”

Turns out, making sauce wasn’t as straightforward as she thought.

Y/N chopped onions with more enthusiasm than precision, the knife slipping dangerously close to her fingers. Drew hovered nervously beside her.

“Careful! You’re not supposed to hold the knife like that.”

“Oh, and you’re the expert now?” she shot back, throwing a handful of onions into the pan.

The oil in the pan hissed and popped violently, and both of them jumped back.

“Is it supposed to do that?” Drew asked, grabbing a spatula like it was a weapon.

“I think so,” Y/N replied, though her tone was far from confident.

Meanwhile, Drew’s attempt to roll out the pasta was going poorly. The dough clung to the rolling pin, tearing apart no matter how much flour he added.

“This stupid thing won’t cooperate!” he grumbled, shaking the sticky mess.

Y/N turned just in time to see a piece of dough fly through the air and land on the kitchen light fixture.

“Oh my god, Drew!” she exclaimed, doubling over with laughter.

“It’s not funny!” he protested, though he couldn’t help but laugh along with her. “Okay, maybe it’s a little funny.”

By the time they finally dropped the misshapen noodles into boiling water, the sauce was bubbling ominously on the stove, and the kitchen looked like a crime scene.

When they sat down to eat, the table was set with mismatched plates and the slightly burnt garlic bread Drew had insisted on adding at the last minute.

The pasta...well, it wasn’t perfect. The noodles were uneven, some parts were overcooked, and the sauce was a little too salty. But they were laughing too hard to care.

“This might be the worst pasta I’ve ever had,” Y/N said, giggling as she twirled a lumpy noodle onto her fork.

“Hey! It’s...rustic,” Drew said defensively, though he couldn’t keep a straight face.

“Rustic is a nice way of saying terrible.”

They clinked their glasses of wine together, grinning. “To our first and possibly last attempt at cooking together,” Y/N said.

“To frozen pizza as a backup plan,” Drew added, pulling the box out of the freezer with a flourish.

As they sat on the couch later, eating perfectly crisp pizza and watching a movie, Drew glanced over at Y/N.

“Okay, maybe we’re not gourmet chefs,” he admitted. “But it wasn’t all bad, right?”

She smiled, leaning her head on his shoulder. “Not bad at all. Definitely the most fun I’ve had ruining dinner.”

Drew chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Next time, we’ll just stick to sandwiches.”

And despite the mess, the chaos, and the slightly singed garlic bread, it was a night they’d both remember for years to come.

[bratzkoo]

positions | wonwoo

Author: bratzkoo Pairing: wonwoo x nurse! reader Genre: fluff, more fluff Rating: PG-13 Word count: 1.3k Warnings/note: first wonwoo fic and it's inspired by ariana's song positions and my Anna, my best friend and the best nurse in the world. Written in Third person and Wonwoo's POV.

summary: it’s a matter of time before you tell your boyfriend that as long as he’s down for you, you’re down too.

taglist (hit me up if you wanna be added): -​

requests are open, but you can just say hi! | masterlist

The scent of sautéing garlic and ginger wafted through Wonwoo's apartment as he carefully stirred the contents of a sizzling pan. His brow furrowed in concentration, eyes darting between the stove and his phone propped up on the counter, displaying a cooking tutorial video. The sound of keys jingling outside the door made him look up, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Y/N breezed in, her presence immediately filling the space with a vibrant energy that Wonwoo had grown to love over the past seven months. "Hey, you," she called out, kicking off her shoes and padding towards the kitchen. "Something smells amazing in here."

Wonwoo's smile widened as he turned to face her. "Welcome back. How was your shift at the hospital?"

Y/N groaned dramatically, draping herself over the kitchen island. "Exhausting. But rewarding. We had a patient recover from a difficult surgery today." She perked up, sniffing the air curiously. "What are you making? It doesn't smell like your usual kimchi jjigae."

"Ah, well," Wonwoo rubbed the back of his neck, a hint of shyness creeping into his voice. "I thought I'd try something new. It's supposed to be mapo tofu, but..." He gestured vaguely at the pan, where the sauce was a shade darker than the video suggested it should be.

Y/N's eyes softened as she rounded the island to peer into the pan. "Wonwoo, that's so sweet. You didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"It's no trouble," he murmured, his ears turning slightly pink. "I know you've been working hard lately. I wanted to do something nice for you."

Y/N reached up, cupping his cheek gently. "You're always doing nice things for me," she said softly, before a mischievous glint entered her eyes. "Even if some of them are potential fire hazards."

Wonwoo huffed out a laugh, gently bumping her with his hip. "Very funny. Why don't you set the table while I finish up here? I promise not to burn the place down in the next five minutes."

As they settled into dinner, Wonwoo couldn't help but marvel at how comfortable this all felt. Seven months ago, he never would have imagined himself here, sharing a meal he cooked (albeit imperfectly) with a woman who had somehow managed to slip past all his carefully constructed walls.

"So," Y/N said around a mouthful of tofu, "tell me about your day. How was practice?"

Wonwoo launched into a recap of SEVENTEEN's latest choreography session, complete with dramatic reenactments of Seungkwan's latest aegyo attempts and Mingyu's clumsy mishaps. Y/N listened attentively, laughing at all the right moments and asking questions that showed she genuinely cared about his work and his members.

As their laughter subsided, a comfortable silence fell over them. Wonwoo found himself staring at Y/N, taking in the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled, the little dimple that appeared on her left cheek. A warmth bloomed in his chest, a feeling he'd been experiencing more and more lately but hadn't quite put a name to yet.

"Oh!" Y/N exclaimed suddenly, breaking Wonwoo out of his reverie. "I almost forgot to tell you. You know my friend Alexys? She called me today, all excited because her boyfriend finally said 'I love you' to her."

Wonwoo felt his heart skip a beat. "Oh?" he managed, trying to keep his voice neutral. "That's... nice."

Y/N nodded, seemingly oblivious to Wonwoo's sudden tension. "Yeah, they've been together for about as long as we have. Can you believe it's been almost seven months already?"

"Time flies," Wonwoo murmured, his mind racing. Were they at that point? Should he have said it already? Did Y/N expect him to say it? The thought of those three little words suddenly felt monumental, and he found himself at a loss.

If Y/N noticed his internal struggle, she didn't show it. Instead, she stood up, gathering their empty plates. "Come on, let's clean up. I'll wash, you dry?"

Grateful for the distraction, Wonwoo nodded, following her to the sink. They fell into an easy rhythm, Y/N washing and rinsing while Wonwoo dried and put away. It struck him how well they moved together, anticipating each other's movements without a word.

As Y/N handed him the last plate, their fingers brushed, sending a jolt of electricity through Wonwoo. Their eyes met, and for a moment, the air between them felt charged with unspoken words.

The moment was broken by the sudden blare of music from Wonwoo's phone. He had forgotten he'd set it to play his evening playlist. The opening notes of Ariana Grande's "Positions" filled the apartment.

Y/N's face lit up. "Oh, I love this song!" Without warning, she grabbed Wonwoo's hand, pulling him into the living room. "Dance with me!"

Wonwoo stumbled after her, laughing despite his initial reluctance. "Y/N, you know I'm not much of a dancer outside of work."

"Nonsense," she retorted, already swaying to the beat. "I've seen your performances. Now come on, show me those moves, Mr. Pop star."

As they danced, Wonwoo found himself relaxing, letting the music guide his movements. He spun Y/N around, delighting in her laughter. When she pressed close to him during the chorus, singing along softly, Wonwoo felt that warmth in his chest expand, threatening to overwhelm him.

In that moment, watching Y/N move with abandon, her eyes sparkling with joy, Wonwoo realized something. This feeling, this warmth that had been growing for months – it was love. He was in love with Y/N.

The realization should have terrified him. Wonwoo had always been cautious with his heart, keeping people at arm's length. But as Y/N looked up at him, her smile radiant, he found that he wasn't scared at all. This felt right. It felt like coming home.

As the song slowed for the bridge, Y/N's movements became more languid. She draped her arms around Wonwoo's neck, swaying gently. "You know," she said softly, her eyes never leaving his, "as long as you're down for me, I'm down too."

Wonwoo's breath caught in his throat. He recognized the weight behind her words, the echo of the song's lyrics carrying a deeper meaning. This was Y/N, brave and beautiful Y/N, putting her heart on the line.

Time seemed to stand still as Wonwoo gazed into Y/N's eyes. He saw hope there, and vulnerability, and something else – something that mirrored the feeling in his own chest.

"Y/N," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "I love you."

Y/N's eyes widened, a small gasp escaping her lips. For a heart-stopping moment, Wonwoo feared he had misread the situation. But then Y/N's face broke into the most beautiful smile he had ever seen.

"I love you too, Wonwoo," she breathed, her voice thick with unshed tears of joy.

Wonwoo pulled her closer, resting his forehead against hers. They stayed like that, swaying gently as the song played on, both marveling at the newfound depth of their connection.

As the final chorus swelled, Wonwoo, feeling bold, attempted to dip Y/N. He miscalculated slightly, nearly dropping her, but managed to catch her at the last second. They froze for a moment before bursting into laughter.

"Maybe stick to the choreography your team gives you," Y/N giggled as Wonwoo pulled her upright.

"Noted," Wonwoo chuckled, cupping her face gently. "But I think I'll keep improvising with you."

As their laughter faded, Wonwoo leaned in, capturing Y/N's lips in a soft, sweet kiss. The song came to an end, but they barely noticed, lost in their own world of newfound love and endless possibilities.

In that moment, as they held each other close in the middle of Wonwoo's living room, both knew that whatever positions life might put them in, they'd face them together, always down for each other, always in love.

[thepinkpanther83]

And They Were Roommates (Pt.18)

Chapter Eighteen: “Man Flu”

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

Previous Chapter: Chapter Seventeen: “The Hellfire Club” Next Chapter: Chapter Nineteen: “Soup, Sickness, Stardom”

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

Chapter Eighteen: “Man Flu”

It starts with a cinnamon roll.

Not just any cinnamon roll- this one’s the size of a hubcap, fresh from the oven, still warm enough to melt the drizzle of maple icing that oozes over the edge of the wax paper. You’re two bites in, already sugar-drunk and smiling, when Eddie appears behind you holding an entire bouquet of mismatched herbs like he’s just wandered in from a Renaissance fair.

He presses the whole chaotic bundle to your chest like it’s a dozen roses. “For you, m’lady.”

You blink at the sage, rosemary, and- was that a lone sprig of mint? “We’re making soup, not love spells.”

Eddie winks. “Why not both?”

You laugh, tucking the bouquet into the reusable tote swinging from your shoulder. The late-morning sun filters through rows of canvas tents, catching the glint of Eddie’s rings as he reaches for your hand. The farmer’s market is in full swing: babies in pumpkin hats, fresh cider being poured from mason jars, someone playing acoustic guitar near the kettle corn stand.

A handwritten chalkboard by the bread booth reads: “Thanksgiving orders due by next week!”

You glance at it as you pass, your fingers still laced with Eddie’s. “Gotta remember to ask Wayne what sides should we bring. Assuming the Munson Men Extravaganza is still happening.”

Eddie snorts. “He’s been watching turkey brining tutorials since September. It’s happening. He’s talking about bringing out two folding tables this year. Like he’s expecting the Pope.”

“Or Corroded Coffin.”

“…Same thing, really.”

He steals a sip from your cider without asking, grinning when you give him a mock glare. You stop to admire some heirloom tomatoes so lumpy and vibrant they look like they belong in an art museum, and Eddie holds up a gourd shaped like a goose and does a voice that’s somewhere between Elmo and a villainous butler. You can’t stop laughing. He ends up buying the stupid goose gourd.

The tote fills with produce: sweet potatoes, garlic bulbs with their papery skins still intact, a bag of ruby-colored apples you picked together. Eddie insists on buying fresh sage even though he doesn’t know what to do with it. You snag a pie for later. You share another cinnamon roll. By the time you head home, the air smells like bonfires and cider, and your cheeks hurt from smiling.

The van smells like cinnamon and earth, the heater valiantly fighting off the late autumn chill as you both pile in with your haul. Eddie tosses the gourd-goose into the backseat with a flourish, where it rolls precariously close to the edge before settling against his empty guitar case. He catches your amused look and grins, reaching over to tuck a loose lock of hair behind your ear- his fingers lingering, warm against your skin.

"Alright, chef," he says, shifting the van into gear with one hand, the other still resting casually on your thigh. "You’re in charge of the kitchen. I’m in charge of the vibes."

You raise an eyebrow. "And what exactly does that entail?"

Eddie’s smirk is pure mischief as he pulls onto the road, the radio crackling to life with some fuzzy classic rock station. "Me, dramatically taste-testing everything while pretending to be a Food Network judge. Maybe wearing an apron. Maybe not wearing an apron."

You laugh, shaking your head as you lean into the passenger seat, the warmth of him beside you, the promise of an afternoon tangled up in spices and each other. The leaves outside blur into a whirl of gold and crimson, and for a moment, everything feels impossibly, perfectly right.

"Deal," you say, stealing one last bite of cinnamon roll before he can. "But only if you let me feed you apple slices like a noble steed."

Eddie throws his head back with a laugh, the sound rich and unrestrained, filling the van like sunlight. "Sweetheart, you can feed me whatever you want."

The day stretches ahead- full of possibility, full of Eddie.

The gourd-goose watches judgmentally from the backseat. You ignore it.

The door swings open with a familiar creak, letting in a gust of wind and the smell of turning leaves. Eddie shoulder-bumps it closed behind him, arms full of groceries, keys still dangling from his pinky as he nearly trips over a discarded boot.

“Welcome to Casa Munson,” he announces, stepping around a laundry basket like he’s dodging landmines. “Home of fine cuisine, questionable counter hygiene, and one very judgmental gourd.”

You follow him in with your own tote, nose pink from the cold and heart stupidly full. The house soon smells like cinnamon from the pie tucked under your arm and just a hint of whatever incense Eddie lit earlier that’s still ghosting through the hallway. Something vaguely woodsy and mystical. Probably called Witch’s Elbow or Druid Sweat or something equally stupid that he swore smelled like “autumn and sex.”

By the time you set everything down on the kitchen counters, Eddie’s already dumped his tote unceremoniously across the counter like a game show prize. Apples roll in every direction. The fresh sage flutters dramatically to the floor.

“Oops,” he says. Zero remorse.

You sigh, stepping over a shallot. “Eddie-”

“Relax, chef, I’ve got this.” He dramatically tosses on an apron he absolutely didn’t need to grab- black with a red skull on it that says Kiss the Cook or Perish. “Today’s special: chicken noodle soup à la Munson.”

“You’re not even cutting the vegetables.”

“I’m here for moral support and mid-cooking karaoke.”

True to his word, the speaker is queued up in seconds, blasting a power ballad from the '70s while you start chopping carrots. Eddie pulls out a spoon and pretends it’s a microphone, wailing into it like he’s on stage. He nearly knocks over the stock pot twice. You catch the edge of it with one hand while still slicing with the other, giving him a look that says I swear to God, if you start juggling the garlic again…

“Soup!” he sings, spinning in socked feet across the kitchen floor. “The meal of the emotionally stable and incredibly sexy!”

“Mm-hmm,” you hum, carefully placing celery into the pot. “Remind me again what you’re contributing?”

“Vibes,” he says, without missing a beat. Then he steals a carrot stick, eats it like a gremlin, and immediately burns his tongue on a noodle you’d just tested for doneness. “Ow… worth it.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. This is normal. This is your normal.

Eddie rummages in the fridge for something that isn’t needed- like capers or grape jelly, and launches into a dramatic monologue about “elevating the flavor profile” while you roll your eyes and quietly season the broth the way you like it. Eventually, he does help, if you can call dramatically crumbling herbs over the pot “helping.” At one point, he dips a finger into the simmering broth and tastes it with all the seriousness of a Michelin judge.

“Damn,” he says, blinking at his finger. “You’re a sorceress.”

“I told you that mint wasn’t going in.”

“Yeah, yeah. But tell me this doesn’t taste like a warm hug from a sexy forest witch.”

You bump him with your hip. “A soup witch.”

Eddie grins, sidling closer, voice dropping to a purr. “A soup witch who owns my heart.”

He’s too much- and not enough, all at once.

Eventually, the soup is done, the kitchen looks like a bomb went off, and you both end up on the couch with steaming mismatched bowls, knees touching under the throw blanket. He makes airplane noises while feeding you a spoonful, just to get you to roll your eyes again. It works.

And even though the dishes are stacked high and there’s flour on your sleeve and a gourd on the windowsill silently judging you both- you’re full. In all the best ways.

The afternoon light paints the living room in warm golds and deep shadows as you both lounge on the couch, soup bowls abandoned on the coffee table. Eddie's arm is slung lazily over your shoulders, his fingers absently playing with the ends of your hair. The gourd sits on the windowsill like some kind of rustic, disapproving chaperone.

"Y'know," Eddie muses, staring at the ceiling with that particular look he gets when he's about to say something ridiculous, "I think we should name it."

You follow his gaze to the gourd. "The goose-gourd abomination?"

"Exactly." He sits up slightly, pointing at it with the hand not currently wrapped around you. "That's clearly a being of great wisdom and judgment. We should honor it."

You snort. "It looks like it's about to call the cops on us."

Eddie gasps, clutching his chest in mock offense. "How dare you. That's Sir Reginald Gooseworth the Third, esteemed member of the Gourd Peerage and part-time soup critic." He pauses, then grins. "Also, he definitely saw me shirtless earlier and liked it, so he can't judge anything."

You burst out laughing, shoving his shoulder as he collapses back against the couch cushions, cackling. The movement makes his shirt ride up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin above his waistband, and you don't miss the way his breath hitches when your fingers brush against it as you settle back against him.

Sir Reginald watches on in silent, gourdly judgment.

The record player in the corner crackles to life with the next album- something slow and bluesy that Eddie had put on earlier. The music fills the space between you, warm and familiar, like the weight of his arm around you or the way his thumb traces absent circles against your shoulder.

"You're staring," Eddie murmurs, though he doesn't sound the least bit bothered by it. If anything, he preens under your attention, his smirk lazy and satisfied.

"Just admiring my handiwork," you tease, reaching up to poke at the flour still dusting the collar of his shirt. "You're a mess."

Eddie catches your wrist before you can pull away, pressing a kiss to your knuckles with exaggerated flair. "A hot mess, thank you very much."

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling too much to sell it.

Today was going to be another perfect day…

It starts with a sneeze so violent, he knocks over a mug and blames the “malicious spirit of illness.”

By mid afternoon, Eddie’s sprawled dramatically across the couch like a Victorian poet with consumption, one arm draped over his eyes. His voice is hoarse, a tragedy all its own.

“Tell Wayne I love him… and that I want to be buried with my guitar. He can’t have it.” He lifts a hand weakly. “Promise me, babe. Swear it on the soup.”

You stare at him from the kitchen, ladling broth into a bowl. “You don’t need last rites. You need DayQuil.”

He ignores you in favor of shivering like a leaf in a storm. “I can’t believe this is how I go. So young. So beautiful. So misunderstood.”

Later, when you hand him a digital thermometer, he scowls at it like it’s betrayed him.

“This thing’s busted. There’s no way someone this sexy can run a fever.”

You eye the red digits. “101.8, Romeo.”

“Then clearly it’s jealous.”

When you suggest a cold compress, he grins with cracked lips and says, “What if you take my temperature… the old-fashioned way?” He winks. “You know, for science.”

You chuck a pillow at his face.

Later still, he claims he’s lost his sense of taste- right up until the moment he takes an impatient slurp of soup straight from the spoon and immediately yelps, burning his tongue.

“MY SOUP TASTERS,” he cries, clutching his jaw. “MY INSTRUMENT!”

He’s wearing every hoodie he owns by this point, layered like a feral onion, the outermost one half-zipped and inside-out. He’s also stolen your throw blanket and trails it behind him like a cloak of contagious doom. You find him ten minutes later posted up in front of the TV like a disgruntled cryptid, whispering “Is this how Frodo felt?” while watching daytime television and sniffling pitifully into a paper towel.

Later, you find him sprawled face-down on the living room floor like a crime scene chalk outline, hoodie hood up, one sock halfway off, and a box of tissues just out of reach like it betrayed him.

“Eddie?” you ask, setting down your tea with cautious concern. “Why are you on the floor?”

He groans in response, barely lifting his face off the rug. “It’s over. This is where it ends for me. Tell Dustin I love him too… he can take over Hellfire.”

You step over him to grab the thermometer off the coffee table. “Pretty sure it’s just a cold or something.”

“There’s no just about it. I have the male immune system. I’m basically operating with an outdated virus firewall over here.” He flips dramatically onto his back and coughs weakly. “Leave me. Save yourself.”

You roll your eyes. “You want more soup?”

He turns his head slowly, eyes glistening like he’s starring in a war film. “If I say yes, will you feed it to me from your hand like a baby bird?”

“No.”

He exhales. “Then I choose death.”

An hour later, you catch him lying on the couch with a damp washcloth dramatically draped over his forehead, a box of tissues on his chest like a cursed talisman. He’s making long, theatrical groaning sounds between coughs that are just exaggerated enough to be suspect.

You check the thermometer again.

“That thing’s broken,” he says immediately.

You hold up the box. “Want to take it again?”

He winks, finger guns you. “Only if you do it the old-fashioned way.” He tries again.

“Absolutely not.”

He pouts. “Tyrant.”

He tries more soup. He scoops up a spoonful of your lovingly made soup, insists he still can’t taste anything, and then immediately screams when it scalds his tongue… again.

“AHH! WHY IS THIS STILL LAVA?!”

“You said you couldn’t taste! Didn’t you learn the first time?”

“I WAS LYING FOR SYMPATHY!”

You cross your arms as he writhes beneath three hoodies, the throw blanket trailing behind him when he shuffles off to the bathroom.

From inside the bathroom: “Do not resuscitate!”

“YOU’RE JUST TAKING A PEE, EDDIE!”

Then, you find him in bed scribbling furiously in a notebook. When you peek over his shoulder, he slams it closed like you just walked in on state secrets.

“What are you writing?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you writing… goodbye letters?”

“It’s called closure. My amps need to know I loved them.”

“You’re such a drama queen.”

“Drama king, actually. Thank you.”

By the time you return with another mug of lemon tea, the look has evolved. Eddie is now wearing: socks- mismatched, no pants, a hoodie with no shirt underneath, and your scarf tied around his head like a ninja who's been dishonorably discharged from battle due to a sinus infection.

The tissue pile on the coffee table is starting to resemble a haunted paper mache volcano. Gourd Sir Reginald now resides on the nightstand, sporting a fragile little party hat made of twisted tissue paper and a fierce expression Eddie swears is “stoic support in these trying times.”

“He’s my emotional support vegetable,” Eddie croaks when you give him a look. “Don’t judge him. He’s seen some things.”

“He’s a squash,” you correct.

“You take that back!”

You don’t. Instead, you touch his forehead, still warm but not alarming, and he leans into it like you’ve performed a sacred rite.

Then comes a cough so rattling, so theatrical, it shakes the pile of tissues and makes Sir Reginald’s hat list sideways.

“NURSE HOTNESS,” Eddie bellows hoarsely, flinging his arm over his forehead like he’s auditioning for a soap opera, “I require your assistance at once. The fever’s spiking. I can feel it. My bones are… humming.”

You raise a brow. “You mean aching?”

“No. Humming. They’re singing me out, babe. Like a sad little kazoo band.”

“I’ve written another will,” he croaks, holding a torn piece of notebook paper with scribbles barely legible through the smudged ink and dramatic underlining. He shoves it into your hand with weak flourish. Scrawled across it in blotchy Sharpie:

“To my beloved girlfriend, I leave my collection of battle-worn guitar picks and the goose gourd who judged me fairly in life. Don’t let Wayne give my Iron Maiden poster to Dustin- he’s not ready.”

You’re reading when he gasps, clutches his chest like he's just been stabbed, and moans, “Also… can you bring me a warm towel? Soaked in the tears of angels. Preferably cherubs.”

“What’s the backup if the angel tears are out of stock?”

“Tap water and a kiss on the forehead. But make it tender.”

You apply a cold compress instead.

He flinches. “What is that? A rag of betrayal?”

When you reach for the VapoRub, he straightens, peering at you like you’ve just proposed marriage. “You’re going to… apply it, right?”

“Yes. Like a normal person.”

He closes his eyes dramatically. “I request a loving yet firm touch.”

You pause, deadpan. “I swear, Munson… What does that even mean?”

“Figure it out, Doctor Feelgood.”

The application process devolves quickly into Eddie giggling like a hyena and claiming, “It’s cold! It’s weird! Why does this feel like mentholized regret?!”

Later, once bundled again, he begs you to put something on the TV.

“Choose wisely,” he says, peeking over his tissue mountain. “It must be a cinematic masterpiece befitting my final moments.”

You pop in The NeverEnding Story.

He gasps reverently. “Yes. Let the childlike empress witness my passing.”

Five minutes in, he’s quoting every line with a stuffy nose and wild inflection, crying louder than the horse scene warrants, and yelling “ATREYUUUUU” with a dramatic fist to the sky.

When you get up to grab another mug of tea, he immediately moans from the couch: “Don’t go… I see the light… oh, wait- nah, it’s the hallway lamp.”

You reappear with a spoonful of medicine. He eyes it with suspicion.

“Are you trying to poison me?”

“It’s cherry-flavored.”

“I only take medicine if it’s hidden in pudding like a dog.”

You return with pudding.

He eats it, then groans like it’s poisoned anyway.

You settle next to him, but he immediately starts sinking lower and lower into the couch cushions, narrating the descent in his best tragic pirate voice: “The fever… she’s taking me down to Davy Jones’ living room! Tell my amps I loved them. And tell my bandmates I went out shredding…”

You rest your head in your hand, watching as he slowly slides off the cushion like a sock puppet giving up on life.

“Tell them I died heroically- like a man…” he whispers faintly, already half asleep.

You throw a blanket over his head.

You return from the kitchen to find Eddie curled up under the blanket on the couch like a Renaissance painting titled The Tragic Wastrel, Post Soup.

He looks up at you with bleary eyes and murmurs, “Nurse Hotness… I require assistance again.” Before closing his eyes dramatically.

You sigh, already setting down the fresh cup of tea. “What is it now?”

“I was thinking, maybe…” He cracks one eye open, voice going husky with suggestion. “We reenact An Officer and a Gentleman but instead of lifting me up, you bring me soup in the rain.”

“It’s not raining.”

“Then use the faucet. Commit to the bit.”

He falls into a bout of coughs that ends with a long, drawn-out moan. “Don’t let them taxidermy me. I want to rot naturally.”

You smirk, pulling the blanket over his legs. “Duly noted, Mr. Munson.”

But the humor fades when he suddenly sits upright, a pale grimace overtaking his face.

“…Oh no.”

“What?”

He swallows hard, then bolts. “I’m gonna hurl-!”

You rush after him as he stumbles to the bathroom, dropping tissues like breadcrumbs on the way. The door slams, and you hear him gag, the sound echoing too sharp to be just dramatics this time.

You linger by the door, worry briefly stealing your breath. No more jokes. Not for a moment.

“…You okay?” you call softly.

There’s a pause, then a weak reply: “I’d like to change my will again. Tell Sir Reginald… I’m sorry.”

He emerges a minute later, ghostly pale and trembling a little under the weight of it all. You tuck him back onto the couch without another word and press a kiss to his temple.

For a while, the only sound is the hum of the TV.

And then-

“You should feed me fruit now. Like a baby bird.”

“…The moment’s passed, Munson.”

He sighs. “Then just let me perish.”

The next morning, sunlight streams through the curtains, illuminating the battlefield of crumpled tissues, empty mugs, and one very disheveled Eddie Munson. He's sprawled across the couch like a fallen warrior, his hair a wild halo of curls, the throw blanket tangled around his legs. Sir Reginald Gooseworth III sits vigil on the coffee table, his tissue-paper hat now slightly askew, as if even he has grown weary of Eddie's theatrics.

You stand over him, arms crossed, watching as he stirs with a groan.

"Ugh," he croaks, blinking up at you with bleary eyes. "Am I... alive?"

"Barely."

He lifts a trembling hand to his forehead, as if checking for divine intervention. "I had the weirdest dream... I was a pirate, but also a tragic poet, and there was pudding-"

"You were high on cold medicine all night."

Eddie gasps, clutching his chest. "You drugged me?"

"You begged for it."

He considers this for a long moment, then nods solemnly. "Fair."

He tries to sit up, fails, and flops back onto the cushions with a dramatic sigh. "I think I need a priest."

"You need a shower."

Eddie gasps again, this time scandalized. "You want me to bathe while I'm dying?"

"You're not dying."

He lifts a finger. "That's exactly what a murderer would say."

You roll your eyes and toss a fresh box of tissues at him. He catches it with surprising reflexes for a man who just declared himself on death's door.

"Alright, fine," he grumbles, peeling himself off the couch like a sad, damp sticker. "But if I slip and fall in the shower, I want it known that I blame you."

You watch as he shuffles toward the bathroom, trailing blankets and self-pity behind him. Just before the door closes, he pauses, turning back with a smirk.

"Hey, Nurse Hotness?"

"Yeah?"

He winks. "Thanks for not letting me die."

And with that, the door shuts, leaving you alone with Sir Reginald and the wreckage of Eddie Munson's Great Plague of '86.

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be tagged!

@justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin

Masterlist

[dreamerinsilico]

So I previously threatened/expressed a hope to do a high-effort bragpost about my recent and semi-recent cooking exploits. These are various things I've made in the last 8 months, i.e. since moving to New Apartment with Good Kitchen; a minority are things I've already posted here, but I felt should be included in the recap because they were absolute standouts.

Christmas dinner (in my mom's kitchen, but after I moved!) - prime rib (+jus), brussel sprouts with bacon, maple, and balsamic vinegar, mushroom risotto, and garlic pull-apart bread that Mom made. I was informed when planning the holiday visit that I would be doing the prime rib, which I had never made before, and quite frankly, that was terrifying, but it turned out as well as I could have hoped.

Some anise cookies I decorated (Mom made the cookies and reserved some for us to decorate).

Some more anise cookies I decorated (well, the Wicked ones and the second mindflayer)! Anise cookies are sugar cookies with anise oil, and a family tradition.

My first attempt at much-missed tuna mayo onigiri (I've since gotten better at shaping them, but that first batch tasted just fine)

Steamed egg breakfast with rice and chili crisp (see reblog for tutorial)

Roast chicken with cabbage (see reblog for recipe link)

Impromptu chicken pot pie for Pi Day. I didn't have any shortening, didn't actually know if I loved the all-butter crust, but I definitely know what I'm doing on the filling.

^ditto

Seared skirt steak with chimichurri, lemon pasta, stuffed mushrooms, and green beans

Veal stock for the osso buco god

The osso buco god

Seared corn and tomato salad with chili-lime vinaigrette (see reblog for post link with rough recipe)

Asparagus salad with lemon vinaigrette (not yet added)

Family birthday brunch - cheese and spinach strata, bacon, avocado and cucumber salad, Greek yogurt panna cotta (see reblog for recipe links and notes)

First (very amateur hour, the next will be better) Pad Thai

Simmered meatballs

#16 over linguine (see reblog for inspiration links)

Chile relleno (see reblog for tutorial video - I followed several resources here, but will link the most informative)

Latkes (for an extreme rarity, I followed a recipe completely as written, and they were amazeballs, see reblog for link)

Gobi Manchurian (Indo-Chinese fried cauliflower with spicy sauce) (see reblog for main inspiration link and notes)

^ditto

[octaneink]

Chocolates and Risotto

James Marriot x Fem!Reader

Summary : James and the Reader spend Valentines Day together making dinner Warnings : None Notes: Happy Valentines Day All 😚💕

You had to give James credit—he really tried. When he suggested cooking a fancy Valentine’s Day dinner together, you were sceptical. You’d seen the state of his skills in the kitchen during his YouTube videos with Will, and let’s just say it wasn’t exactly Gordon Ramsay-approved. But James was so excited, scrolling through TikTok and showing you recipes with names like “Decadent Truffle Risotto” and “Molten Chocolate Lava Cake.” He even joked about how Will would probably laugh at them if he saw this. “Good thing it’s just us tonight,” he said, grinning. “No cameras, no pressure—just you, me, and Otto.”

The plan was simple: James would handle the main course (garlic butter shrimp and risotto), and you’d take care of dessert (the lava cakes). He was optimistic, as always, convinced that this would be the perfect Valentine’s Day. “It’ll be fun!” he said, waving a wooden spoon like a conductor’s baton. “And if it goes wrong, we’ll just order takeout and laugh about it. Low-key vibes only.”

Things started falling apart almost immediately. James, deciding to multitask, had shrimp sizzling in one pan, risotto bubbling in another, and a TikTok tutorial playing on his phone—though he swore it was just for reference. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his hair was already a mess, flopping into his eyes as he stirred the risotto with one hand and flipped the shrimp with the other. 

You couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him, so focused yet so clearly out of his depth. He looked up at you, catching your gaze, and flashed that lopsided grin of his. “Chef Marriott at your service,” he said, giving a mock bow with the wooden spoon. “Tonight’s menu: chaos with a side of romance.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you turned back to your own task—the chocolate lava cakes. Or at least, what was supposed to be chocolate lava cakes. The batter was supposed to be thick and glossy, but yours was more like soup, pooling in the bottom of the mixing bowl. You frowned, stirring it again, as if that would somehow fix it. “I think I messed up the measurements,” you admitted, holding up the bag of flour that had somehow exploded all over your apron. 

James glanced over, his nose wrinkling as he tried to stifle a laugh. “You’ve got a little… everywhere,” he said, gesturing to your face. You reached up to brush it off, only realising too late that your hands were covered in chocolate. James burst out laughing, and you couldn’t help but join in, the sound of his laughter filling the kitchen like music.

The moment was interrupted by the risotto, which had started to bubble ominously. James turned back to it, poking at the glutinous mess with his spoon. “Why is it so… gluey?” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

You leaned over his shoulder, peering into the pot. “Maybe you’re supposed to add more wine?” you suggested, grabbing the bottle of white wine from the counter. Without waiting for his response, you poured a generous glug into the pot.

The risotto hissed angrily, releasing a cloud of steam that set off the smoke alarm. The shrill beeping filled the room, and James leapt into action, waving a tea towel at the detector like a man possessed.

“Okay, maybe we should’ve just ordered food in,” he said, laughing as the alarm finally stopped. He turned to you, his cheeks flushed from the heat and the effort, and shrugged. “But hey, at least we’re doing this together, right?”

As if things weren’t chaotic enough, Otto decided to make his grand entrance. He had been suspiciously quiet up until now, but the chaos in the kitchen was clearly too tempting to resist. With a graceful leap, he landed on the counter, his tail swishing as he eyed the sizzling shrimp with predatory interest.

“Otto, no!” James yelled, lunging to intercept him, but the cat was too quick.

Otto darted toward the pan, his paw swiping at the edge and sending a few shrimp tumbling to the floor. James moved like lightning, scooping Otto up just as the cat was about to pounce on his prize. “Oh no, you don’t,” James said, holding Otto at arm’s length as the cat squirmed indignantly. “You’re not ruining dinner. Well, not any more than we already have.”

You couldn’t help but laugh as James carried Otto out of the kitchen, setting him down in the bedroom with a stern look. “Stay,” he said, pointing a finger at the cat, who blinked up at him with an expression of pure innocence. “Yeah, right,” James muttered, shaking his head as he walked back to you.

By this point, the kitchen looked like a war zone. The shrimp was overcooked, the risotto was gluey, and the chocolate lava cakes were still a soupy mess. But somehow, none of it mattered. James reached out, pulling you into his arms, and you leaned into him, your laughter mingling with his. “We’re a disaster,” you said, resting your head against his chest.

“Yeah,” he agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “But we’re our disaster.” And at that moment, with the kitchen in shambles, the smell of burnt risotto in the air, and Otto’s paw prints trailing down the hallway, you couldn’t imagine anything more perfect.

After the chaos in the kitchen, James declared the cooking experiment officially over. “Takeout it is,” he said, grabbing his phone and scrolling through the delivery app. You nodded in agreement, leaning against the counter as you surveyed the mess.

The risotto was still bubbling, the shrimp were beyond saving, and the chocolate lava cakes were now a solidified puddle in the bottom of the pan. Otto, meanwhile, had been banished to the bedroom after his shrimp-stealing antics, though you could hear him meowing indignantly from behind the closed door.

“I’ll clean this up while you order,” you offered, grabbing a roll of paper towels and a sponge. James shook his head, stepping closer and taking the sponge from your hand.

“Nope,” he said firmly. “We’re in this together, remember? I’ll help.” He grabbed a green food bin bag and started scooping up the ruined risotto, while you wiped down the counters and mopped up the olive oil. It wasn’t exactly romantic, but there was something oddly comforting about working side by side, laughing as you tried to scrub flour and chocolate off the counter.

By the time the doorbell rang, the kitchen was mostly clean—or at least, clean enough. James went to answer it, returning with a bag of burgers and chips from your favourite spot. The smell was heavenly, and your stomach growled in anticipation. “I think this is the best decision we’ve made all night,” you said, grabbing plates and napkins.

James set the bag down on the counter and started unpacking the food, placing the burgers and chips onto plates with a surprising amount of care. “We’re doing this properly,” he said, handing you a plate. “Blanket on the floor, candles, the whole vibe.” You raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, helping him spread a blanket across the living room floor. He lit a single candle—carefully placed out of Otto’s reach—and turned off the overhead lights, leaving the room bathed in a soft, flickering glow.

You sat down cross-legged on the blanket, balancing your plate on your lap. James grabbed a couple of sodas from the fridge and joined you, sitting close enough that your knees brushed. “Okay, this is way better than risotto,” he said, taking a bite of his burger. You laughed, nodding in agreement. The food was simple, but it was exactly what you needed after the disaster in the kitchen. The chips were perfectly salty, the burgers were juicy, and the soda fizzed as you popped open the cans.

As you ate, James started making up a silly song about your failed dinner, his voice warm and teasing. “We tried to cook, but it went up in smoke, now we’re eating burgers and telling bad jokes…” You laughed, leaning against him as he sang.

The sound of his voice, the flicker of the candle, the way his arm brushed against yours—it all felt so perfect, so right. You couldn’t help but smile, feeling a wave of affection for him. “You’re such a dork,” you said, nudging him with your elbow.

He grinned, setting his plate aside and shifting closer to you, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he wanted to savour every second of this moment. His hand found yours, fingers intertwining, and he gave it a gentle squeeze. “Yeah, but I’m your dork,” he said, his voice soft, almost a whisper, as if the words were meant for you and you alone. His eyes held yours, warm and steady, and there was something in his gaze that made your breath catch—something tender, something unspoken, something that felt like home.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, as if he was trying to imprint the moment into your skin. Then he moved to your cheek, his breath warm against your face, and you could feel the faintest hint of a smile on his lips as they brushed against yours. When he finally kissed you, it was slow and sweet, a gentle exploration that made your heart flutter in your chest. His hand cupped your jaw, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek, and you melted into him, the taste of salt and fries still on his lips, mingling with the faint sweetness of the soda he’d been drinking.

For a moment, the world outside the two of you faded away. The flicker of the candle, the soft hum of the refrigerator, even Otto’s occasional indignant meows from the bedroom—it all seemed to dissolve into the background, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in a bubble of warmth and quiet intimacy. His other arm slid around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you, and you could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours. It was a kiss that felt like a promise, like a thousand unspoken words, like the kind of moment you’d want to remember forever.

When he finally pulled back, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours as he smiled. “You know,” he said, his voice low and a little rough, “I think this might be my favourite Valentine’s Day ever.” His thumb brushed against your cheek again, and you could feel the sincerity in his words, the way they wrapped around you like a blanket.

You smiled, your heart so full it felt like it might burst. “Even with the burnt risotto and Otto’s shrimp heist?” you teased, your voice barely above a whisper.

He laughed, the sound soft and warm, and pressed another quick kiss to your lips. “Especially because of that,” he said. “It’s us. Messy, chaotic, perfect us.”

Just then, a particularly loud meow came from the bedroom, followed by the sound of Otto pawing at the door. James glanced toward the hallway, a fond smile tugging at his lips. “Alright, mate, hold on,” he said, reluctantly pulling away from you. He stood and walked over to the bedroom, opening the door just enough for Otto to slip through. The cat strutted into the living room, his tail held high, as if he hadn’t just been banished for causing chaos. He sniffed at the empty plates, clearly unimpressed, before jumping onto the couch and curling up in his favourite spot.

James sat back down beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you close. You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Otto’s soft purring filled the room, blending with the flicker of the candle and the warmth of James’s embrace. It wasn’t the Valentine’s Day you’d planned, but it was perfect in its own way—messy, chaotic, and utterly, completely yours.

How did people find this? I hope it was okay and hit a craving for something on Valentines Day.

[xoxo-stellea]

𐙚⋆°｡‪‪❤︎‬ ⋆ 𝒞𝑜𝑜𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒟𝒶𝓉𝑒𐙚 ⋆°｡‪‪✮ ⋆

Warnings//none just some fluff ☘︎

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

The kitchen was filled with the sounds of pots clanging, knives slicing, and the occasional giggle as you and Chris worked side by side. It had started as a simple idea—Chris had asked if you’d like to cook dinner together—but as soon as you agreed, he had thrown himself into the task with the same enthusiasm he put into everything. The recipe was simple—just spaghetti and homemade meatballs—but the process, the laughter, and the small moments of connection made it something far more special than it ever would have been if you’d cooked it alone.

Chris stood at the stove, stirring the marinara sauce, his brow furrowed in concentration. You were chopping garlic and onions at the counter, the scent filling the air as you finely diced each piece. The kitchen was small, but cozy, and the warm light from the overhead lamps added to the homely feeling of the space.

“You sure you know how to cook?” you teased, glancing over at him as you cut another clove of garlic. “You’ve been at that sauce for a while now.”

Chris gave you a playful side-eye, a teasing smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Excuse me, I’ve got this under control. I’m just making sure it’s perfect.” His voice was laced with mock indignation, but there was a definite twinkle in his eyes that made it clear he was enjoying every second of this.

You couldn’t help but laugh, setting the knife down and walking over to him. “Let me guess, you’ve been watching some YouTube videos, huh?”

Chris shrugged dramatically. “Maybe I watched a couple tutorials,” he admitted with a grin. “But it’s all about the little details.” He leaned in close to the pot, taking a deep breath. “Smell that? Perfect balance of herbs.”

You stood next to him, leaning in to smell the sauce. The rich aroma of tomatoes, garlic, and basil hit your nose, making your stomach rumble. “Okay, I’ll give you that. It does smell good.”

He winked at you, clearly pleased with himself. “Told you. Just wait until the meatballs are done.”

You stepped back, grabbing the ground beef and herbs you’d set out earlier, your hands working quickly to form small meatballs, rolling them between your palms until they were perfectly round. Chris, meanwhile, was still at the stove, stirring the sauce with an intensity that made it clear he was really focused. You had to admit, there was something oddly endearing about how seriously he took it, especially since you knew this was probably his first time making spaghetti from scratch.

The kitchen filled with the sizzle of meatballs as you dropped them into the pan, a smile spreading across your face as they began to brown. “There. That should get them nice and crispy,” you said, carefully flipping them over.

Chris watched you with admiration, his lips curling into a smile. “I knew I was right to ask you to cook with me. You’re a pro.”

You shrugged nonchalantly, flipping another meatball. “Well, I’ve made this a few times, so I guess I know what I’m doing.” You paused, glancing over at him, catching his gaze. “But, you know, it’s fun to do it with you.”

Chris’s expression softened, his smile turning more genuine. “Yeah, I’m glad we’re doing this together.” He stirred the sauce again, his voice quieter now. “I think this is what makes everything better—the little moments, you know?”

You looked at him, a flutter of warmth spreading in your chest. There was something so intimate about this—standing together in the kitchen, sharing the task, sharing the space. It wasn’t about making the perfect meal; it was about being together, being present in the moment.

“Yeah,” you said softly, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I get it. I feel that too.”

The atmosphere shifted then, becoming more peaceful and relaxed as the two of you worked in tandem. You focused on the meatballs while Chris kept stirring the sauce, making sure everything was just right. Every so often, he’d glance over at you with a look of quiet admiration, or make a playful comment to break the silence. It was easy to be with him like this—no pressure, no distractions. Just the two of you, creating something together.

You finished the meatballs and added them to the simmering sauce, watching as the rich red sauce absorbed the flavors, melding with the herbs and spices. Chris adjusted the heat, his brow furrowing slightly in concentration. “Do you think it’s ready to be served?” he asked, glancing at you for confirmation.

You took a small taste of the sauce from the spoon, savoring the mix of tangy tomatoes, basil, and the savory meat from the meatballs. “It’s perfect,” you said with a smile. “I think it’s ready.”

Chris grinned, clearly pleased. “I think we make a pretty good team.”

“I’ll say,” you agreed, reaching for the plates. “Dinner is served.”

You set the table together, arranging the plates, adding a sprinkle of Parmesan on top of the pasta and meatballs. Chris was already setting out glasses of wine, his movements graceful as he poured a generous amount into each glass.

When everything was ready, the two of you sat down at the small kitchen table, the room glowing softly in the evening light. You both took your first bites, the taste of the homemade meal filling your senses. There was something about sharing food you’d both worked hard to make together that made it even more satisfying.

“This is really good,” Chris said between bites, his mouth full. “Okay, I might’ve overdone it with the seasoning just a bit, but overall, it’s… it’s pretty amazing.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Overdo it? This is perfect, Chris. You really came through.” You smiled, watching as he reached for his wine glass. “I think you’ve earned the title of ‘Chef Sturniolo’.”

Chris laughed, leaning back in his chair. “I like that. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” His gaze softened as he looked at you, and for a moment, the playful banter faded into something more meaningful. “But honestly, I’m just happy we did this together. It’s been… really nice.”

You met his gaze, the warmth of the evening settling over both of you. There was no need for words; the contentment in the room, in the simple act of sharing this meal, said everything you both needed to hear.

After dinner, the two of you moved to the living room, where you collapsed onto the couch together, tired but happy. Chris stretched out, propping his feet up on the coffee table, while you snuggled into the cushions beside him, leaning your head against his shoulder.

“Thanks for today,” you said, your voice soft, content.

Chris smiled, his arm wrapping around you as he pulled you a little closer. “Thank you for being here, for making it as fun as it was,” he said, his tone full of affection.

You both sat in the comfortable silence, the scent of the meal still lingering in the air, the TV softly humming in the background. It was moments like these—simple, quiet moments—that you cherished the most. Not because of what you were doing, but because of who you were doing it with.

As the night wore on and the meal settled, you and Chris found yourselves drifting into a peaceful silence, the evening winding down in the best way possible. You felt grateful—grateful for the laughter, the food, and most of all, for Chris.

This was what love felt like—sharing the smallest moments, cooking together, laughing together, just being there for one another. And it felt like everything you ever needed was right here, in the warmth of the kitchen, in the comfort of his company…

Writers note- hope y’all enjoy ☘︎

[thericare]

Any warm and cozy recipe ideas for a satyr-kin? Or maybe self-care, or masc/dark outfit ideas that come in bigger sizes? Sorry if this is a bit different ^^'

Dont be sorry, I got you!!

So for the fashion I tried to include stuff that was modern/casual that you could wear without drawing too much attention to yourself. I also included some more obviously fantasy-styled clothing if that's your vibe too! I hope these inspire you. I think the puffy legged pants (aka "pirate pants" really give off the vibe and you could incorporate that into a lot of modern outfits!

Cozy Recipes For A Satyr:

Grilled Garlic Mushroom Skewers

Goat Cheese Stuffed Dates

Medieval Potage Stew

Charcuterie!

Herb Baked Eggs

If you love cooking I have to recommend any sort of fantasy/medieval cookbook. They're FILLED with cozy recipes that might scratch that itch for you. You can find a lot of free scans online but I recommend The Elder Scrolls Official Cookbook, Heroes' Feast (Official D&D cookbook), and Tasting History by Max Miller (this guy also has a YouTube channel by the same name where he uploads free tutorials and recipes!)

As For Selfcare:

Feasts!

I'm not sure about you specifically, but its said that satyrs are known to love the pleasures of the flesh. Feasts! Drinking! Be merry! If you can, take the time to have a meal with friends, family or a loved one and just chat it up and have a good time!

Indulge your senses

Surround yourself with things that appeal to your senses. Succulent fruits, vibrant colors in nature, wonderful music, etc.

Ritual Baths

Treat yourself to a bath infused with herbs, flowers and oils. Play some gentle music or ambient nature sounds. Maybe even light some candles!

Seek Adventure

It can be anything from visiting somewhere you've never visited in your local area, to taking a day off to take a hike! Nature spirits thrive on excitement and exploration

Feed your mind

Storytelling and learning. Dive into podcasts, books and mythology and expand your knowledge. Revel in the magic of storytelling!

------------------------------------------------------

I hope you like these! I had a LOT of fun making this. Satyrs are so cool!

[horsefreek151]

My husband's First time Watching Twilight

My dear husband has not seen many of the movies that were very informative of my tween and teen years; Twilight is one of the top ones. He not only agreed to watch it but agreed to let me write down his reactions. Here are the 3 PAGES of comments I recorded during the two hour movie.

Opening line: "I'd never given much thought to how I would die." - Well, Lucky you

I'm glad this deer is going to be totally unharmed

What ?! Hang on... He catches the dear mid jump like a trick dog.

Him: Why is (Stephany Myers) so obsessed with baseball? Me: Shes Mormon Him: I think it's the homoerotic subtext

ACAB even (Charly)

Alright... one bathroom? There's only two of you!

Billy (who is in a wheelchair) responds with how hes doing by saying "Still Dancing!" - I love him Meets Eric - GAY BEST FRIEND *He was disappointed by him being straight* *Pauses Movie* I had no idea her name was Isabella

Mike Existing - That's the most awkward person Ive ever seen

Jerk kisses her on the cheek without consent - That's assault

*Edward walks in* - OMG thats BATMAN *JKJKJK*

How ... Why ... Why is she laughing.

So he can see the future... Nobody in this movie knows how to eat food. Fuck you, Binder! She is the awkward one Charly Guy in Mill getting hunted - Hes agile I would have fallen over by then. Bella slips and falls over - Relatable *he is unaware of the trope* "Not in Phoenix Bells" Line referring to large animals hunting people in Forks - "YoU DoNt HaVe AnImAls iN ArIzOnA" What do you mean Charly!? They have Mountain Lions and SNAKES Charly! *I mention scorpions too* No writer in this movie ever talked to a high schooler. "Your name is Bella?" - Its actually Isabella as I have learned I only care about this golden onion... and why it isn't a golden garlic. "Cold wet thing" - Unlike sand which is hot and course She also looks like shes in white face paint. (Edward) just walks away like a fucking freak... I love it. None of these people have ever talked to a human before. *Car Crash* - So much is happening... why are there so many cuts... The vampires all look like fucking mimes Your asking him about the speed he got there and not the CRUMPLED DOOR?!

Dont worry (Bella) Im also confused about what happened *Edward in the corner of her room* Hes like a fucking PTSD flashback. Hes a fucking sleep paralysis demon Its dumb to send (the vampires) to highschool. I didn't know one of (Bellas) personality traits was Clumsy There Bio teacher belongs in a sitcom They act like they are fifty or twelve... not like teenagers... twelve is more accurate. The most unrealistic part (of there field trip) is that the bus driver is not screaming at him for banging on the door... or maybe I grew up in Boston. *Edward dose the apple thing* - Ok now he's just making fun of her Robert Patterson and the guy playing Charly are the best actors. Edward mentions wearing a mask, and Bella quips about it - OOOOO, She called Edward out for being autistic! *He can say that as I am autistic and I give him permission* *Edward cant go to LaPush* - Is it cause he cant cross moving water? *He made so many jokes about vampire lore I didn't write them all down* I was trying to tell what time this flashback took place and I just couldn't. I'm glad they gave us a 30-second tutorial on how to get a book online. Some of this look like a horror movie TOKYO DRIFTING, Dam that was a fuckin j-turn! "Little do (her friends know) he was going to eat her, for her blood" Oh Bella, I understand he's a pretty boy, but back up from the "How do you know what he was thinking?" and back to the "WHY WERE YOU STALKING ME!?" I can't wait for the almost SA scene to never come up again... *sarcasm* * They touch hands by oops * - Touch Barrier Broken Charly and Billy watch the game - DAD DATE! ... Oh no not Butcrack SANTA! Looks at Jasper - Is he another vampire who fought for the Confederacy? She sees buttcrack Santa's body - Do they not have body bags? With how much he's stalking her he should be called Edward the Relentless *he loves what we do in the shadows* Why are we spinning... why is there so much spinning? Bella claims Edward talks old-fashioned - He talks like a badly written character... like everyone here. "you won't hurt me" - cause stalkers never escalate violence when things don't work out. Because she's a white woman, and he's her pit bull. LISTEN TO HIM WHEN HE SAYS HES DANGEROUS BELLA. "personal brand of heroine" - Him: because everyone knows heroine comes in brands Me: Im on name brand Meth (me referring to my ADHD MEDS) Him: You're on generic Meth, and you know it. (as I take the generic brand) YOU'VE KNOWN HIM FOR LIKE A WEEK "Irevicoably in love with him" - GIRL... WHY? Sees Emmit - He kinda looks like Peet Davidson I like (Edwards) sitting like a little weirdo He turned to madly in love on a dime. Wait hang on.... (skips back to Billy giving Bella the stinkeye) Eyyyy They do what we do! (Billy holding all the stuff while Jacob pushes, like we do with my wheelchair) Just Sees Jasper - "Ive never seen more fear in a character than in his face right now

Is he scared she will know he fought for the Confederacy? (I have yet to confirm or deny the truth of this statement) Alice being Alice - OOoO Edward, she's gonna steal your girl! No wonder he's fallen in love in 3 seconds... he's been seventh wheel for who knows how long. *there dancing in edwards room* - *husband starts singing my fair lady* "Hang on Spider Monkey" - IT's THE LINE!!! *I mention how it's creepy that he watches her sleep* Well, you watch me while I sleep, but you have insomnia... and were married. *they kiss*- This is the most Mormon shit I've ever seen. At least they show how realistically boaring being a vampire would be. Drinking while cleaning your shotgun... that's totally safe Charly... "Why do you play baseball?" - Since they are American Bella! - "Well it is the American past time" Esme says - SEE! The Thrupple of trouble is walking in like there ready for a photoshoot. Blond Thrupple guy (James) looks so High... "...STuck here like MOM" - OOF! KNIFE TO THE HEART! Did her friends just steal mugs from the diner? Edward won't stop drinking her blood - Bop him on the nose with a newspaper like a dog. Edward sad he "didn't" stop - But you did stop when Carlile bopped you on the head with a newspaper. We kissed once now were in love forever.... They are all weirdos and this feels like a cult Director of Photography, I hate you. Costume? I can't forgive you for that flashback. High school science teacher, you were my favorite. His final review: This was a bad movie. There are better vampire movies, there's better romance movies and better young adult movies. All the genera are valed, this is just a bad example of all of those generas. I understand why its popular tho, and why young woman loved it. Especially when you take in at the time, it came out. Its the American mix of all about sex but completely clean and demonising sex and not having any sex in it. To me its the same way that 50 shades of gray wants to be about sexy bdsm while still saying bdsm is morally wrong. Nothing wrong with wanting a sexy vampire with wanting a romance, I like romance. Theres nothing wrong with media for young women. This is just bad.

[thepiratefish]

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[ask-jim-jimenez]

my boss looted treasure from a cursed ship, and now I don't know what to do! if I take my cut, I'll be cursed, but I can't just not take it! what would you suggest? could I remove the curse from the loot somehow?

Alright, important question.

step by step tutorial;

form a salt circle and cover yourself with garlic.

don't try to convince your dumb captain to get rid of it, it will be in vain.

BURN everything, just incase. if you're searching for a way to keep your cut on the loot somehow.... your already lost....

pray for your soul, and hope you come out alive...